I’ve recently had a strong hankering for pickles. Not that kind of pickle, you perv. I’ve had a craving for those eerily vinegar tasting delicacies you find on every hamburger in the continental United States.
I had a jar in the refrigerator. Grabbing up the green freaks of nature, I opened, pulled one out, and bit. And then realized why I’ve always hated dill pickles.
They’re a briny, salty, vinegary mess. Now, I’m not hating on all pickles. Just dill. I love me some bread and butter pickles. Those sweet, wonderful little delicacies. I could even slurp the juice off them.
And I’m not hating on anything pickled. You give me a jar of pickled squash, and I’ll be in pickled nirvana. But don’t, whatever you do, put a container of kill (dill) pickles in front of me. I’ll be out that door quicker than a virgin butthole in the prison system.
So, why if I have such an aversion to the dill did I start craving them suddenly? My answer equals no idea. I’ve always hated them. We’d go to McDonald’s or Burger King as a kid, and I’d be the one to pull the little flimsy slices off the bun. I’d either give them to the mom or would throw them at my brother. Hey, might as well make it fun and get in a little trouble at the same time.
Over time, I’ve tried to develop a taste to them by munching and crunching here and there. It never works.
Now here’s the weird part that has developed over time. I can eat dill pickles if they’re mixed in something. At least I can say I’m progressing. Mix them up in tuna fish or potato salad. I’m on them little suckers like Sunday fried chicken. That slight crispiness and tartness just adds something to an otherwise boring salad. Yum! Throw pickle spears on a salad, and I’m flicking them off with a fork. So, watch out and make sure that pickle don’t spear you in the head.