Have you met my 13year old? She is a professional pickle eater. But her profession is limited to ONLY one kind of pickle. I have blogged about them before. They are precariously tangy and sweet. Just perfect.
They are Wickles.
A Wickedly delicious pickle.
They are da’ bomb and we go through many of jars of these babies, much thanks to the Pickle Eater. I have looked into buying them in bulk, but there is no cost savings involved. poop.
When a new grocery store opened up around the corner a few months ago, I was aghast to see they did not carry Wickles. I was now in a pickle. Someone was not happy that we did not have a stockpile of pickles in the pantry.
I tried to explain to her the predicament. I did not want to travel farther to another store just to purchase pickles. She made a pouty pucker. AND you know, I am a sucker.
On my next trip to our store, I found a comparable jar of pickles. It claimed to be spicy and sweet…ah ha, just like our Wickles. I have found a replacement and amazingly enough, they are cheaper than Wickles.
I made the purchase and brought them home with a big smile ready for her to give me a big smooch on my pucker!
“Hey Pickle Eater, look what I got for you!!!!”
One nibble later, she declared: “These are not Wickles!” I tasted them, and I agreed. NOT even close.
Fast forward a few months later and my store finally carries Wickles. We were out of our pickle minds with glee.
But still, in the back of the fridge was the opened jar of non-Wickles pickles. The imposter pickles.
As the pickle eater was going through jar after jar of Wickles, the others just sat there in the back next to the
nasty pickled okra.
Coach had a brilliant idea. He told me told me that when she finishes a jar of Wickles, transfer the imposters over into the Wickle Juice and Wickle jar. She will never know!
So that is what I did.
Last night, she opened up the imposter jar of Wickles and immediately knew something was awry. “They have changed the pickles! Look, they have ridges in them!!”
I could barely keep a straight face, and tried to look indifferent.
She forged on and applied them to her burger.
ONE bite into the burger, the Jig was UP. She knew they were not Wickles. And she was MAD. I told her it was her Dad’s idea. She was still mad at me for going along with the plan and vowed not to speak to me the rest of the night. I was fine with my punishment, but it only lasted 13 seconds.
She loves me too much. And she loves to talk. And no one else was home to talk to at the time.
She removed the pickles from her burger, pointed her index finger at them and said: “Bad, you are not Wickles, you are not worthy of my burger!”
Yes, we even talk to our food here.
But she left a message for her Father to see when he came home: