This will probably cause a fuss. I know I’m in the minority, but that’s pretty much my normal MO anyway, so I’m used to it. I just need to know why, here in the land of the free and the home of the brave, there’s no tolerance for my choices.
I. Hate. Pickles.
I don’t dislike them—I hate them. I’m a purist. And an equal opportunity pickle hater. There’s no place for dill or sweet in my menu. I don’t do pickle relish or thousand island dressing or sandwich spread. I don’t want tiny pieces of pickle in my potato salad or deviled egg. If you put a juicy spear on the plate next to my hamburger and it soaks into my potato chips and bun, you might as well throw the whole thing away, cuz I’m not eating it.
Burger King used to say “special orders don’t upset us”, and I could have it ‘my way’. But the last time I ordered a Whopper Jr. with no pickles—emphasis on the ‘no’—I bit into three of them at once. That’s what trust will get you. I tried to get back at them with a class action lawsuit, but it was more like a home school lawsuit – I was the only one in attendance.
I guess I’m alone in my principles.
It’s not that I hate cucumbers. Big cucumber fan here. It’s what they did to it while its back was turned that I’m against.
It’s the whole process that has me in a pickle. Whose bright idea was it to put hard boiled eggs in a jar of vinegar, for example? And how did they convince people to eat it? Just because things are preserved doesn’t mean they’re improved. Ever heard of King Tut? I rest my case.
I’ll admit, some foods deserve to be kept in a jar of vinegar where they can’t hurt anyone. Beets, sauerkraut, and pigs’ feet come to mind. But open that jar and all bets are off. I had a nightmare like that once. Complete with spooky fog and creepy music, a creaky metal lid twisted off a dirty quart size jar, and as the contents floated out menacingly, a six-year-old boy’s voice whispered, “I see dead pickles.”
That's the only good kind as far as I'm concerned.