I got the recipe. B's killer pickles. My favorites. Each year I hoard them away from everyone else and each year they are perfect. But not this year, because this year B didn't make them; I did.
I don't know why they sucked in on themselves, pruning like a bunch of old cocks in their brine. B's don't do that. I could take a jar to Persephone and show them what their cucumbers have done to me, and to my delicious garlic, and jalapeños, and to my dreams, eighteen quarts over, but I'm not sure they're to blame. Maybe next year when I once again have a whole row of pickling cukes I'll try again, in just a few jars to start, and prove to myself that I can do it. I can make the good pickles! On the other hand, there are still jars of oversized, nearly inedible (whew, especially a year later) cornichons in the basement from the Pickling Chronicles of 2011. I think it's time for a city compost sacrifice.
The day that I pruned my pickles, Julia and Eric came over for dinner crowing over their first really-truly-just-right fermented pickles. They were embarrassed to be bragging, and they didn't even know of the rows of sorry jars squatting in the basement, but I was thrilled to hear of such success. If you don't miss the mark a few times, what is winning? I only hope I get to taste them.
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