Monday, October 17, 2011

in a (disjointed) pickle.

This could possibly be the most disjointed, ADD post I've ever written. It probably could have been multiple posts or scrapped altogether, but it's Monday... I debated on blogging about TV (again) or the Taylor Swift concert I went to a few weeks ago. Just be grateful I did not.

Pickled things and I have a complicated, delicious relationship. Whether it is the mildly perverted, over-sized dills you get at movie theaters or me coming home drunk and eating an entire jar of green olives in my underwear alone in my room, I can't get enough.

So, the other day I was overwhelmed with the uncontrollable urge to pickle something... particularly okra. I made a facebook post inquiring if any of my friends had good recipes and/or experience with pickling, because I had no experience and online recipes freak me out.

You never know who submitted these recipes, and most of the comments/reviews are super lame food trolls. I mean people might say 'This was the best thing ever. I am blind now it was so delicious.'  But, the reviewer's hyperbolic enthusiasm does not a believer out of me make. 

Also, all of the recipes I was reading made it sound really complicated. I'm not sure this is actual math but: glass jars + boiling hot water + my aforementioned uncontrollable urge + excitement to leave my simple 9-5 life and build a pickling emporium = an almost certain disaster full of vinegar tears, severe burns, and zero bathtubs full of pickled okra. 

After about 348 text messages to my foodie friends and a few online recipes later, I built up the courage to trust a woman who has never not provided me with disgustingly delicious food. That being said, I'm pretty sure you could put melted butter on Biohazard waste, and I would eat it...

That's right, y'all. I used Paula Deen's recipe for pickled okra.

I made this! You can make your own at the best website ever:

Once I recovered from the shock of the exclusion of butter and my heart started beating again, I was ready to conquer this, my vinegary Everest.

In response to my post, my work-wife was nice enough to give me some canning jars she had on hand in the promises that I return one full of pickled okra goodness. So, I was set... ish. 

My only experience with jars like these is drinking sweet tea
out of them until my bladder needs its own zip code.

Although I was still terrified at the idea of handling a giant vat of boiling water, the ingredients were simple, and even though canning talks a lot about 'sanitization' I didn't sweat it. I mean, if these things last one week, it will be a miracle of Biblical proportions so  I wasn't extremely anal about making sure they were crazy sanitized.

Here they are boiling in their water bath that seals them. Is it just me or does it look like I'm growing little aliens or velociraptor fetuses. (Or is it "feti"?? No, that sounds like bad cheese or a foot disorder). Anyway, that picture is weird.

OK here, my friends, are the finished products!

That white thing is garlic, not an undeveloped raptor fetus. 
I *totally* would have taken more pictures of the actual process, but in my defense, I was trying to find the best way to avoid third degree burns.

Turns out, these are AMAZING. It was ridiculously simple and I sustained little to no burns on my arms. This was one of my proudest moments ever. This rarely ever happens to me when it comes to trying new things.

You know? You want to do something, you have a task in front of you with multiple steps and a clear goal, and for once, the final outcome is almost exactly as you pictured it!

This doesn't even happen to me when it comes to the most simple things. For instance, Saturday evening, I was planning on having a little 'me' time before my usual weekend craziness. So, I decided a glass of wine, a little snack, and some DVR would be just the ticket.

Turns out, when you drink wine out of a box and said box is almost empty, aggressively tilting it and forcibly removing the bag from the box can sometimes lead to knocking the almost full glass you were trying to fill off the counter...

My 'me' time quickly turned into fighting back tears while mopping up wine off the floor and debating to suck the remaining wine directly out of the spout.

Speaking of really, really sad things. As Saturday night came to an end, I found myself limping home. Two of my middle toes on my left foot were throbbing, but I don't remember stubbing my toes or getting stepped on.

The next day, there were no cuts, bruises or visible swelling and they still hurt. Does anyone know what might be wrong with me? It's not unbearable pain and I still maintain full range of motion in my toes. I'm too terrified lazy to actually go to a doctor and going to WebMD and typing in 'toe pain' will most likely generate a diagnosis of some terrible combination of  gout, parvo, and possible feline AIDS.

Side note / PS - Who the hell came up with the phrase 'in a pickle' anyway? I mean, if I could literally be IN a pickle, I would simply eat my way out, very slowly. That saying should change. 

1 comment:

Erin likes it hot. said...

Really too bad about the raptor fetuses. They were making me so hungry, too.