Simple Measure

One thing I am always on the lookout for is a good pickle. Pickles that live up to my expectations are surprisingly hard to find. I prefer a whole gherkin, please, so that the crunchiness is maximized. None of these so-called “sandwich stackers” or other pre-sliced varieties that seem so mushy to me. And of all things, the pickle cannot be sweet. Absolutely NO sweetness! I want vinegar and brine, zing and zip, a flavor that will knock me off my feet and then pick me up ready for more. A fire-breathing EVENT of a pickle.

I suppose this unusual love for pickles is my grandmother’s fault. Though she and Grampy lived in town, they had a large garden that supplied a lot of food for the family. I know she must have put up a lot of vegetables for the winter, but my memory is hazy on this point. I do know that when the grownups pestered her for pickles, she would disappear into the cellar. Minutes later she would emerge with a cloudy jar of what seemed like the most enormous pickles ever to my little eyes. And they weren’t just any pickles. They were mustard pickles.

It always made me a little nervous when they were passed around. The grownups loved reminding each other that any accidental inhalation of the powerful mustard fumes would cause the pickle eater to erupt into a loud and hilarious coughing fit. The Williams family is a rowdy bunch, always laughing at something, and anyone eating a mustard pickle was in serious danger of being provoked into pickle inhalation. I distinctly remember my older sister Cory being slapped on the back as her face grew red and she coughed away, the whole room lost in an uproar.

I avoided these pickles for a long time because they seemed, well, dangerous. A little risky, like bungee jumping. So when I decided I was brave enough to try one, I ate it slowly, taking little tiny bites to ensure that I didn’t suffer the same fate as other members of the family. After the relief that I was still alive passed away, I realized that those pickles were damn good. There was a reason why everyone kept reaching for the pickle jar despite the obvious danger of its contents. Crispy, powerful with mustard, they had a sharp and tangy flavor that was quite the elevation of the humble cucumber.

As the years have passed and memories of those pickles begin to fade, I’ve wondered if I can ever find a replacement. All the brands I’ve tried are the same parade of sweet or boring pickles, even the ones that are labled as “spicy!” Spicy, yeah right.

That all changed last week when I stood in front of the new pickle display at work. There, on the top shelf, was the answer to all my pickle dreams: a 32 oz jar of whole dill pickles from Rick’s Picks. If you’ve never heard of Rick and his amazing pickles, then you should definitely scoot over to his website and check out all of his fabulous wares.

Based in Brooklyn, New York, Rick began making pickles that reminded him of the ones he used to eat as a child. Since then he has experimented with lots of unique pairings. The “Kool Gherks” I tried are Rick’s traditional take on the dill pickle. They were a little garlicky, a little dilly, and had enough of a bite to keep me eating “just one more.” Good thing I shared them with Erin, because I think I could have eaten the whole jar myself.

Rick’s other offerings include wasabi green beans and smoked paprika okra. Doesn’t that sound good? I know Erin is already a devotee of Rick’s Phat Beets.

If I dare say it, I have the feeling that this is the start of a beautiful friendship.