Gurkens happen

I did one of those cartoon eyes-popping-out-of-my-head things complete with sound effects when I saw these on the grocery store shelf. I tucked a jar into my grocery basket as soon I finished mopping up the puddle of saliva that had pooled on the floor while I was looking at them. My sisters know what I’m talking about. 

Once I was home I waited impatiently outside the refrigerator for them to get cold. I don’t like a warm pickle. Well, unless it’s on a hamburger. And once they were cold (OK, the next day) I wrenched the jar open with reckless abandon.

Yeah, no. Sweet. I mean, fine, I’ll eat them, I’ll eat almost anything, but they were not what I was expecting. Maybe if I’d read the ingredients or taken the time to look up “Schlesische” (say that three times in a row) I’d have realized what I was buying. But probably not. Schlesische means Silesian which is meaningless to me. I mean, I know Silesia is a part of Germany but I am not so up on their pickle styles. Although I suppose there is some small comfort in adding that to the treasure trove of useless information that clutters my mind. 

“Oh,” I can say at a cocktail party sometime, “the Silesian pickle is a sweet pickle from the area of Germany called Silesia.” And then taking a sip of my wine somewhat more loudly than is necessary, continue with “I discovered them when I was on sabbatical in Hesse.” Sucking my teeth ever so gently and adding, “lustige Tatsache.”

I ate them for breakfast since I was never at home for lunch. Three sittings, if I remember correctly, to empty the jar. Now I’m wondering what Hessian pickles might be like.

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