Actually, it IS Rocket Science



S’Dill life

A couple of weeks ago a new restaurant opened near my apartment.  They say they specialize in Memphis-style barbeque, but I get pretty leery around locations that limit themselves to food that originated thousands of miles away.  Side note: this is also why I will never go anywhere that says they specialize in Cajun food if they aren’t located in Louisiana or any of its immediate surrounding states (and Texas is even pushing it at that point).

However, admittedly I am a straight up sucker for smoke-pit slow roasted anything, so before long I was looking up their menu online.  Which is when I saw it.  And believe it or not, it wasn’t even of the smoked variety.

Fried. Motherfucking. Pickles.

Holy hell, I fucking love fried pickles. Which is odd, because I really don’t like most deep-fried anything.  Fried stuff usually grosses me out, actually.  Because almost every time I eat deep-fried stuff, I think of something that can be pretty much summed up like this:

Hey guys, did you notice that around 40 seconds in the guy explains that people have a severe misinterpretation of the idea because they think it’s going to mean butter “runnin’ down their face” but then the first entire TWENTY seconds after the minute mark completely disproves his theory?

Whatever.  Fried pickles.  Love’em.  They first took off in the southern states, so it’s not surprising that I first tried them when someone brought them into the bar that we used to hold band practice above late one afternoon in Louisiana.  It was like falling into the rabbit hole of gastronomic heaven.  Fireworks.  If it’s possible to fall in love with a food, I would have gotten down on one knee right then and there.  Call them what you will; pickle chips, dill dippers, I don’t care, it’s all semantics as far as I’m concerned.  What I was concerned about was that once I moved away from the south, I knew that I would be giving up a lot of the best foods I had ever eaten.  I can make etouffee, gumbo, and a killer jambalaya, but I think I’ve mentioned before that frying is just not my forte.  So long, fried pickles.  I hardly knew ye.

Then, a few years ago, I was at work, recovering from a stupid weather-induced cold when the line-up for the infamous “Taste of Chicago” Festival came out.  If you’re not familiar, it’s just a big spruced up title for many of the greatest Zagat’s rated restaurants and notorious greasy spoon dives to come together in harmony and offer several of their choice menu items for everyone to enjoy.  I was looking through the list when I saw someone had finally gotten a clue and offered fried pickles on their tasting menu and I almost tore down a wall in my office had I not had a stomachache.

A co-worker came in and said:

Co-Worker:  Hey, Ashlin, how’s it going?

Ashlin:  Oh, I’m good, not 100%, but other than that, pretty decent.

CW:  Sick?

Ashlin:  Oh, yeah, you know, probably just a cold.  Weather.  Hey!  Did you see the line up for Taste?

CW:  No.  Haven’t seen it yet.  They have some good stuff this year?

Ashlin:  Yeah!  They finally have fried pickles!

CW:  … uh….

Ashlin:  Have you ever had fried pickles?

CW: …No.

Ashlin:  They’re AMAZING.   I used to eat them all the time.

CW: …

Ashlin:  What’s wrong?

CW:  You sure you’re just sick?

Which was when I realized that I just set myself up for the most epic this-chick-is-totally-pregnant moment for anyone who hadn’t yet experienced the Val Hala that is a fried pickle.  Because for some reason everybody LOVES to be the person who “first called it.”  Especially boys, who must think they’re aficionados on the subject of predicting that kind of thing, because that seems to happen a lot whenever I tell someone I’m not feeling tip top shape.  And what else better to tip the scales than to make verbal a craving for a food item not familiar to midwesterners (even though you guys have NO idea what you’re missing out on) than the stereotypical food item that women throughout the ages have craved and made indicative of being knocked up… apparently.

So what.  I’m not opposed to any accusations whatsoever if it means I can sit happily and eat as many panko-breaded deep-fried sodium-infused cucumber euphoria as I can.  Go ahead and speculate that I’m carrying quints and that I also just acquired MS while recovering from mono… and a reeeeally bad hangnail.  I’ll be over here with my happiness.  I’ll see you in 9 months and you can compliment me on how swift my recovery seemed to go.

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Comments

  1. I’m sorry, I was done at the fried butter cumshot.

    | Reply Posted 6 years ago
  2. * Chris Carrington says:

    Did you get any bbq? Did you eat it as an open faced sandwich

    | Reply Posted 6 years ago
    • Chris, I cannot tell you how much that made me laugh aloud to read that (I refuse to use the insipid excuse for an acronym of saying the same thing)

      | Reply Posted 6 years ago


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