pickling in the 'burbs

So it finally happened. Urban Girl wound up in the suburbs.

A little background: I was always Urban Girl. And then I fell in love with Suburban Guy who was transforming himself into Urban Guy (because who wants to be Suburban Guy or Sub-anything Guy?) and we lived an urban life. Even after we had a child, we were profiled in the New York Times as Brooklyn pioneers, cool kids with a kid.

Then we had two. And all of a sudden there was dog poop everywhere and we had to shout over construction noises as 20-year-olds in hip "office clothes" brushed past our kids on their scooters. Only our richest friends were living well. And half of the good ones had already fled to LA or San Francisco or DC.

Soon the extra 700 square feet with a patch of grass bigger than a salad seemed not so bad. So and so had moved to Westchester and they were happy. The schools were good. The kids could have their own rooms. Urban Girl could have a little quiet because maybe she wasn’t so urban after all. In fact, all she wanted was a little goddamn peace.

And then the moving trucks came and we genuinely felt like the world was ending and then there we were or rather here we are: the burbs.  

About three days after we moved, my beautiful Brooklyn friend Lisa asked the obvious question: have you started pickling yet? Which got me thinking. I had space in the giant fridge (and another fridge in the garage because that's what suburban people do) so why wasn’t I making pickles?! Duh.

I first turned to the Mile End cookbook thinking Canadian Jews know pickles and made my first batch, which were good but a little sweet. So I tried Tasting Table’s recipe which was simpler (only 48 hours compared to Mile End's two-week picking time) but still a touch sweet. Along the way I stuck random things in the pickling liquid like celery and squash. Our fancy fridge now looks like a science fair but check out my new marble countertops (above) ... and Michael's hedger. Take that Brooklyn!