#Pickle Cucumbers at Home

[familytubem]

Quick & Easy Pickled Cucumber Recipe! 🥒 #PickledCucumber #FamilyFoodTutorials #viralvideo

[buffetlicious]

This box of succulent Char Siu (叉烧) or Cantonese-style barbecued pork mum bought it during her morning trip to the market. Of course, we couldn’t help but took a few pieces to eat. That smoky aroma and charred flavour of the sweetish barbecued pork is just so incredible satisfying. In the evening, mum just steamed some rice and sliced a Japanese cucumber to go with the reheated char siu. Also added some pickled daikon that sis bought from the Korean minimart.

[crownconstellation]

whoever invented the pickled cucumber... i hope they're getting like. their every wish fulfilled in the afterlife forever

[istjury]

me irl rn

[askwhatsforlunch]

Smoked Salmon and Pickled Cucumber Sandwich

Warm days are upon us; they really are! And after a jolly good walk under a hot sun, across meadows and fields, there is nothing better than sitting down to a picnic with this Smoked Salmon and Pickled Cucumber Sandwich, a couple of glasses of ice-cold Chardie (just remember to bring lots of water, too, when you go hiking!), a good book and the blissfully scented shade of a black locust tree! Absolutely delightful, I assure you! A very good day to all!

Ingredients (serves 1):

a small Baguette Viennoise

2 tablespoons cream cheese

a pinch of freshly cracked black pepper

half a dozen to 8 slices Pickled Cucumbers

about 60 grams/2 ounces Smoked Salmon 

Halve Baguette Viennoise without cutting it through, gently opening it like a book. Spread cream cheese generously onto each side of the Baguette Viennoise. Sprinkle with black pepper.

Layer Pickled Cucumbers and Smoked Salmon slices into the Baguette Viennoise, and press gently to close the sandwich.

Wrap tightly in cling film, if bringing as a lunch or picnic. Keep in the refrigerator.

Enjoy Smoked Salmon and Pickled Cucumber Sandwich with a few Crisps, and a well-chilled glass of Pays d’Oc Chardonnay Vigonier or Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc.

[murielles-crowsnest]

I cannot help but notice this list does not include cucumbers. I can only surmise one reason for this. Folks are like me, and there is one reason and one reason alone that you are growing cucumbers. You would never give a single one away.... yet. They were planned to be preserved from the moment the seed was planted.

You give those things away in jars.

How do you preserve the food from your garden so it doesn't go bad before you can eat it?

You are wildly underestimating my ability to go fucking feral about fresh produce. I don't think I even brought snap peas into the house last year. Just ate them right off the vine.

Though I did end up freezing the strawberries/blue berries as they ripened, but even those were consumed within the week.

The only tough one was the potatoes, but that was resolved by just foisting potatoes on everyone I knew. Much more welcome than Zucchinis.

[grassbreads]

Made a veggie burger for lunch with pickled onions and a fried egg on it, and ohhh my god. I can't believe I never thought to do this before.

[jensownzoo]

So that's:

--6 half pints of pickled pepper rings (sweet, sweet&hot, and jalapeño)

--4 pints of small whole garlic dills with red bell peppers and onions

--3 pints of sweet cucumber pickles

Added to the 5 pints of garlic dill slices and the quart of refrigerator sweety peps and I think I may be stocked up on pickles until next summer. Well, at least of the pepper and cucumber variety.

I still need to make jam, but I'm out of pectin so I've been stashing the fruit in the freezer for the time being. I probably should look up the way that uses apple skins/cores instead of commercial pectin but that's just a pain.

Almost out of freezer space though since I made enough pesto for the year when we had that first frost last week and I harvested all the basil (minus one flowering plant I left for the bees).

Mmm...next year if all that garlic I planted actually produces I'll also have jars of pickled garlic. Yum!

[jazzeria]

Doing a "perpetual pickle" jar by adding fresh cucumbers and salt to an already established, active dill pickle brine.

I started with some slightly sad dill cucumbers from the store, knowing I'd be hitting the farmer's market on the weekend. At the St Norbert Farmer's Market, I scored a big ol' bag of tiny dill cucumbers. The next day, I visited my partner's grandmother who gave us some home-grown pickling cukes too! So I staggered these over about a week.

My personal preference is "half-sour" dills, about 3 days of fermentation, when the flesh looks creamy and opaque, perhaps hints of translucent regions. It's crisp, tastes cucumber-y, but isn't too "juicy" the way a full-sour often is.

I'd extend this project for even longer, but my partner gently reminded me that my pickle cravings often come in waves. I go on a bit of a #picklerampage for a few weeks, then it fades for a while. But now I have lots of brine ready for whenever I want to start again.

[smallboyonherbike]

a fun fact about me is that anytime i have dinner at home i'm eating 1-2 pickles at the end of the meal as a dessert. and it's always amazing and perfect. ofc i also have a major sweet tooth and eat a cookie or a chocolate but that's like later before bed

[autism-corner]

im so excited to eat wraps again oml

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Little City Gods

Bobby wasn’t sure why the special dumpster diver targeted his restaurant. Maybe it was because they were finally packed on weekends. Maybe because he forgot to close the lid properly one night. Maybe because life is a bitch and then you die.

After a week of this, the owner, Barb, had them clamp spikes around the lip of the metal like a medieval torture device. Those were snapped off. The next day the manager put a padlock on the lid. That was gnawed through and left on the ground covered in spit that glowed softly golden. The day staff poured cooking oil around the base of the dumpster like a looney tunes cartoon where they hoped it would slip and fall. Bobby had to assume that was lapped up, because the next day only shimmering three-toed paw prints were left and the lake of oil was gone.

And was it too much to ask for a break? Two months sober and Bobby wasn’t paid enough to defend an oil spill with his life, much less a dumpster. The only thing stopping him from walking the other direction was his mom’s voice. You get a prize for just a day? She laughed when she saw his first AA chip, her breath smelling of her favorite Patrón. Is it supposed to be some kind of good luck charm? Bobby, you’re a pickle now, you’re never going to be a cucumber again, baby.

“It’s not rats,” the exterminator said and Bobby would have gladly thrown his hands in the air and be done with it. The older man frowned. “You’re gonna need a shrine.”

“You sure?” Barb, the owner, put her hands on her hips, meaning she meant business.

“Look at the prints,” the exterminator’s eyes were already on the door, “glowing like a disco party.”

Bobby ran a hand through his hair. “This is the city.” And it was THE city too, concrete and bricks and bad air. “Middle of the city.”

The big man shrugged. “Call a priest about it.”

Both the owner and the manager of Barb’s Restaurant were the good sort, probably gave them all too many breaks and sent everyone home loaded with food. You'd want old Lou in your corner if nothing else. So, Bobby did look up building shrines in his free time. Afterall, having an alleyway destroyed every morning–eggshells, plastics, noodles, spread out like a bomb exploded, it wouldn’t do.

Plus, as the main busboy slash kitchen help slash charity case, Bobby knew the dumpster was kind of his responsibility. He was lousy with a kitchen knife and even worse with waiter small talk.

The shrine looked like a doghouse when he was done. A cardboard square with a fake candle inside and fake roses pinned to the top.

“There.” He dusted off his hands and called to the darkening sky. “I worship you or whatever.” That day he went home early, turned the TV up high, and texted everyone back in his messages.

Bobby got a call in the morning, and he wasn’t even due in for another few hours. He picked up the phone and a part of him missed being hungover. Hungover-Bobby would never have answered a morning phone call and would have felt fine about that.

“Lou?” Bobby answered his manager sleepily.

Lou grunted. “You do this?”

“Oh.” Bobby’s heart sank. “Is the dumpster still standing?”

The manager snorted. “Not sure we’re targeting the right god.”

Bobby let his head fall back and closed his eyes. “Think there’s a god of trash cans? But like, a vengeful one.”

“Inventing new damn gods to give me a migraine.”

“Our lady of rancid lettuce. Hater of cardboard and eater of fucking take out boxes.”

Lou chuckled and Bobby could imagine him doing his slow head-shake. “You piss off any deities lately?”

Maybe the fake roses weren’t a good idea. “Not that I know of.”

“Well. You might’ve just started.”

The shrine hadn’t lasted the night. Apparently, plastic roses were the opposite of a good offering. Bobby dressed like he was headed to a funeral and found his latest project was a puddle on the ground. The thing had licked up the oil like it was a buffet but apparently plastic roses were a step too far. They twisted in a bubbling black puddle, shifting and oozing in place. Bobby’s heart squeezed painfully and he leaned over the tiny tar pit.

The puddle bubbled and when he put his head over it, it hissed at him. He screamed loud enough his mother probably heard that too. Probably said he was a baby, and never gonna be a man again.

They really did need a priest after that. The damned plastic roses were melted into a gross tar thing that hissed at you. They needed back-up.

“Isn’t the point of the city to get out of dealing with stuff like this?” Bobby asked, hands crossed over his chest. The priest was young, fair, and had dark circles under his eyes. They probably sent their rookiest guy, barely holy, to handle restaurants with dumpster-divers of an unusual sort.

The young man leaned over the sparkling paw prints and oozy little tar part on the ground. He grimaced.

“Who said they don’t come to cities?” His accent was surprisingly thick. Bobby backed off when he smelled the strong liquor on his breath. Typical. Priests.

“Just what I heard,” he said, not meeting the priest's dark gaze.

“The whole world’s sacred. Up to the corners,” he said, surprisingly reverent, and cracked his back like an old man when he stood. “I’ll get the traps.”

The priest set-up No Kill Snares. Real candles burning on long milky wicks and smelling of lavender. String soaked in holy water crisscrossed overhead. A ring of pearls with an inscription in the middle, written on real parchment and good ink. He placed a talisman on the lip of the dumpster, warding. Barb must have paid a real penny to buy a ward.

Bobby was the most skeptical of the little tricks. If spikes weren’t going to deter it, then the talisman of a back-alley priest was just going to get in the way. 

Late Saturday rush, sweating through his t-shirt, running around like a chicken with his head cut off, and Bobby went to dump a nice big bag of trash. He sees it then. He sees with his own two eyes.

Glowing like a small sun, eyes burning gold, and body bursting with waves of dusty light. Unmistakable. A small god. It was in a bad way too, light shifting like a kaleidoscope, and falling off of it in heaps. It seemed to lose more rays of sun than shine them, and its mouth dripped with glittery black oil.

The little god jerked its head back from the trash and snarled at him. Bobby put his hands together in prayer.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” The little god bared its dripping teeth and let out a sound like rusty bells. Bobby dropped the trash and got down on his knees. “Easy now.” His eyes softened, clumps of light falling off the miscreant. It was shivering. He put a hand out like you did at a church offering.

The creature sneezed, whole body seizing up, and whatever god it was, it was a dying one.

“Do you know where you are?”

The little god chimed and backed away. Bobby shook his head. Was there a tree that used to grow here? A well of clear water? Did gods remember what they lost? 

Their trash was saved for the night and Bobby tried not to let on that he was a goddamn hero. Lou gave him the next day off though. Bobby, however, came in. He liked work. Needed it. Less time for drinking or thinking about drinking. The old Bobby would have never needed work. The old Bobby wasn’t full of craving on craving, not just the hot burn of drink or the oblivion. The despair. The panic. The knife’s edge. How good it felt to ruin yourself.

This Bobby came into work. He sat on the ledge by the dumpster, and tossed breadcrumbs to the ground. What did a little god need from a back-alley restaurant? He watched the clouds pass overhead and the little god did not show up. 

The next night he played a game with the customers when they walked in. “Write down the best thing you ever gave up.” He passed out strips of paper and checked them at the end of the night. A good number of people wrote someone’s name: George, Juan, Sylvie. A wistful heart was drawn on a few of them, and Bobby included those. More than a few were jokes: “Gave up your mom.” “Gave up being bad at sex.” “Gave up handwritten notes up until today. Thanks for nothing.”

The wait staff helped pick out twenty perfectly good wishes at the end of the night. Plenty of strangers were game for an odd group activity, it seemed. They were lucky like that.

Bobby decided it was a tree, he felt a little bad, making assumptions like that. But no other alleyway in the neighborhood had to deal with exploded refuse every morning. He crafted the shape of the tree out of chicken wire and bits of twine. Fastening every single person’s half-decent answers to the ends of the branches like leaves.

He sat, long into midnight, writing his own answer on the wish paper. Gave up the drink. No. He had scratched that out. Gave up having fun. That one was also tossed out. Bobby thought, in the end, he wrote something serviceable. Gave up on giving up on myself.

A couple weeks later, Bobby ran into the young priest at an AA meeting. He found it kind of sweet, seeing the other young guy there, figuring it all out. He still had the deep shadows under his eyes and the look of a hunted man. That was probably why Bobby stopped him after the meeting.

“Did you ever figure out your pest situation?” The young priest asked, tired.

Bobby grinned. “Eventually, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Someone had to.”

“Did one of the traps work? Those usually do.” He snorted. “Even city gods get conceited and will run into a trap.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Let’s get coffee, huh?”

He told the young priest a story: the little city god was never going to be worshipped as a tree or a sun or wellspring again. Had become a Problem Eater. But if you fed it right, little bits of what it used to be, new kinds of offerings in the old style, you might get a perfectly serviceable back alley.

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[dontforgetukraine]

This month, Olena Vladymyrets, a Holodomor witness from the Vinnytsia region,celebrated her 95th birthday. Ms Olena was born on November 4,1929. She is the only one of 3 daughters of Oleksandr and Marta Tsvylyk who survived the Holodomor. Photo from Nina Vladymyrets' Fb page. "We lived in Tomashpil village in the Khmilnytskyi district, Vinnytsia region.There were 3 of us: the eldest, Larysa, born in 1927; me, in 1929; the youngest, Mariyka, in 1932. Both of my sisters didn’t survive. Mariyka was only 5 months old," she told our museum staff in an interview. During the Holodomor, she was very young, but she heard from her parents that before collectivization, people lived decently. "Those who worked, they lived..." But then, all their bread was taken away. "You know, as they used to say: 'Lenin told Stalin to take away the 'surpluses' but Stalin thought: take everything to the last crumb!' And so they did. My mother managed to earn a small amount of grain and put it in a pot to cook. She placed the pot in the oven, covering it with cauldron of water as if she were only heating the water. Activists broke in, poured out the water, removed the small pot of grain, and dumped it into their bag. Neither tears nor pleas helped. They took everything from everyone, and that is how the famine began." In 1946-1947, Olena Oleksandrivna experienced yet another man-made famine. "Mother and five of us, children, (four were born after the Holodomor) were already without a father (he died in the war). In the winter of 1947, Mother travelled to Western Ukraine seven times to trade some household goods for food." Ms Olena recalls. "She took all the essential items we had at home, including linens, towels, and various other things. It was a hard journey; they travelled in boxcars,got caught,and were forced off. And I, at 16, stayed home alone with the children. When Mum returned from the West, she brought a bit of grain. We kept a little for ourselves,then took the rest to the market in Bykiv, 8–10 km away. There, Mum sold the grain and bought clothes—jackets, skirts, dresses, scarves to go back to the West, as we had already sold out everything we had. I looked at those clothes and wanted a dress or a skirt so badly; after all, I was a girl! But what could I say to my mother? There were still younger children at home who were asking for food…" Today, Ms Olena, along with all of Ukraine, is going through another hardship—the war unleashed by Russia. Despite her age, she helps her daughter Nina make trench candles for Ukrainian soldiers. In addition, throughout the summer, the women made homemade treats for the soldiers they grew themselves: pastila, adjika, pickled cucumbers, tomatoes, fruits, vegetables, and berries! Although our birthday celebrant needs a walker to move, she actively contributes to volunteer work. She rolls cardboard for candles, peels fruits and vegetables, and assists her daughter as much as she can. Her daughter has also sent five drones to the front lines and provided medications, tourniquets and other essential items requested by the soldiers. We wish Ms Olena health,a long life,and a speedy Victory,which she dreams of more than anything else! May her dream come true! —Holodomor Museum

[buffetlicious]

The Reunion Dinner (团圆饭) at Lai Huat Signatures (来發) was actually eaten a week and a half before Chinese New Year Eve. This dinner I am showing you now is on the actual eve day. As you can see, it is just some simple home-cooked dishes as mum is getting on in age and we ask her not to tire herself out over the cooking. So no braised bamboo shoots this year since this takes about three weeks to prep and cook.

Let’s start with some appetizers. A bowl of diced Pickled Daikon & Japanese Cucumber and some Ngo Hiang (五香). It is essentially a composition of various meats and vegetables and other ingredients, such as a sausage-like roll consisting of minced pork and prawn (or fish) seasoned with five-spice powder (五香粉) after which it is named, rolled inside a tofu skin and deep-fried.

The Roasted Chicken (烧鸡) is part of the offerings from this morning prayer. The chicken had just been cooked when sis brought it home from Chong Pang. Mum added this plate of Stir-Fried Pea Shoots (豆苗) with prawns, minced pork and tomato wedges.

The second last dish is this Fish Maw & Pork Ribs Soup with fish balls added. Fish maw is the air/swim bladder of the fish and we Chinese called it 魚鰾 or 花膠. The soup is sweetened with dried scallops and corns so minimum seasonings is required.

Lastly, mum’s Braised Five Spice Pork (五香卤肉) with shiitake mushrooms and braised eggs. For the meat, mum used pork belly, lean pork and pig’s trotters which is braised with five spice powder, dark soya sauce and garlic cloves.

For My Plate of dinner, I got a little of everything except for the roasted chicken. The white rice is drizzled with a little of the braising gravy of the pork. Nothing beats the wholesomeness of home-cooked food.

[cheeseatlantic]

Cheese, the Johnny and Reader cheese where she accidentally finds his sketchbook, and he was embarrassed but still so gentle and loving was so beautiful. It’s so lovely. Thank you. 🙏🏻 Please more Johnny coziness and loveliness.

AHHHH RHANK YOU I LOVE YOU ANON MWAwaMWAH

FEEDING STUPID(S)

It started with a lovingly packed lunch.

Homemade bánh mì with slow-roasted pork belly, crisp pickled vegetables, soft baguette. A little container of lemongrass broth on the side. Some spiced mango slices and a tiny handwritten note taped to the lid: “Don’t share. You deserve nice things. Love you.”

Johnny pulled it out during break, beaming with the pride of a man deeply loved—and deeply fed.

Kyle and Price immediately leaned over.

“The hell is that?” Kyle blinked at the sandwich like it might sing. “Did your partner cook for you again?”

Johnny, smug as anything, nodded. “Aye. Said I need proper fuel for blowin’ shite up.”

Price whistled low. “That’s better than what we get in the mess three times over.”

But before Johnny could even get the lid fully open—

A gloved hand came from behind.

Quick. Silent. Precise.

And yoinked the entire container.

Johnny squawked. “OI—, you absolute gobshite, give that back!”

Simon didn’t even look guilty. He just cracked the container open and took a bite, still walking.

“Mmm,” Ghost said around a mouthful of Johnny’s lunch. “Weird. Thought this was mine.”

Johnny stared, slack-jawed. “You don’t even bring lunch!”

“Exactly. Must’ve got mixed up.”

“You walked in with empty hands!”

Simon glanced over his shoulder. “You imagining things again, MacTavish? Worryin’ me.”

Johnny turned to Price and Kyle. “You saw that, right?! That’s my sandwich!”

Price took a sip of his tea. “Bit hard to say, Sergeant. It was pretty fast.”

Kyle nodded solemnly. “Could’ve been anyone.”

Johnny threw his arms up. “Unbelievable. Gaslit by my own bloody mates.”

⸻

That night, Johnny came home, dramatically flopping onto the kitchen counter as you plated dinner.

“Love of me life,” he groaned, “I need a tactical solution.”

You blinked. “…To what?”

He pouted. “LT keeps nickin’ my lunch. Full-on stealth op. He even stole the mango slices. And lied about it.”

You tried not to laugh. “Do you want me to pack you extra?”

“Nah, I want retribution—”

But the next morning, when Simon opened his gear bag, he found a perfectly packed lunch inside. Carefully labeled in blocky handwriting:

“Simon! Yes, this one’s actually for you. Eat it and stop stealing Johnny’s. Also I know you took the mango. – [Your Name]”

He stared at it in silence for a moment.

Then cracked the lid.

Inside: slow-roasted beef rendang, coconut rice, crispy shallots on top. A side of Thai cucumber salad. Mango sticky rice wrapped in wax paper.

“…Oh,” he muttered. “…Shit.”

Johnny caught him halfway through his first bite. “That’s right, ya thief. My spouse made you your own. No more grand larceny!”

Simon just hummed. “Yours was still better last week.”

“YOU—!”

⸻

By the end of the month, you were meal-prepping for three.

Price quietly asked if he could “get in on that action too, if it’s not too much trouble.” Kyle offered to wash every dish in your house in exchange for one of your burritos.

And Johnny?

Johnny never shut up about you. Not once.

Not about your cooking. Not about the notes.

Not about how lucky he was.

Because he was—and he knew it.

[hiddurmitzvah]

I wanted to celebrate with these two prints that I made, a long history that jewish people, garlic and pickles have. You can purchase these print via my Etsy shop.

And here's the history:

Already in ancient times, garlic was a central part of celebrating Shabbat. The Talmud devotes several passages to talking about garlic, explaining that it is a key part of Shabbat meals. “With what does one delight in the day of Shabbat?” the Talmud asks, recording an answer provided by Rav Yehuda, son of Rav Shmuel bar Sheilat, who recalled the words of his teacher Rav: “With a dish of beetroot, and a large fish, and heads of garlic” (TalmudShabbat 11b). Elsewhere, the Talmud refers to Jews who celebrate Shabbat as “garlic eaters,” so closely identified was Shabbat dinner and lunch with this fragrant vegetable. (Talmud Nedarim 31a)

Even later on, in the medieval times, the conncetion between jews and garlic was quite close. In fact, it helped the community to survive!  In Istanbul, when Jews avoided the plague during a terrible epidemic, it was said that the virus did not penetrate the Jewish area because of the smell of garlic. Jews hung bulbs of garlic outside their doors to ward off the plague as a talisman and sign of good luck. The food historian Gil Marks adds: “Historically, the addition of garlic was among the typical Jewish touches that enhanced local dishes. In many cultures, the presence of garlic marked a dish as Jewish.”

In Germany, in the towns of Speyer, Worms and Mainz were home to large, vibrant Jewish communities. A popular acronym for these areas took the first letter from each town – S, W (which is written with a double “U” sound in Hebrew) and M – echoed the Hebrew word for garlic, shoom. The area was known as Kehillas Shoom (or SchUM) – the community of “Shum”, or garlic in Hebrew.

So identified were German Jews with garlic that some anti-Semitic images persist from the Middle Ages and Renaissance, depicting Jews holding or posing with bulbs of garlic.

But jews and pickles go back for a long time too. Eastern European Jews brought their pickle-making traditions to America in the late 19th and early 20th centuries and made it famous there. Pickled cucumbers were an important part of their diet due to the need for preserving food in harsh climates in Eastern Europe, where was a common practice to collect and preserve pickles in order to survive winter. Everything could be pickled, from lemons to carrots, with varying degrees of culinary success.

Some took the cucumber, a cheap, accessible vegetable, preserved it in the spring to make them last through the winter and feasted on it throughout the year. Some of those people were Jews and thus the Jewish love affair with pickling began, as a way of keeping vegetables hygienic and healthy.

Fermantation itself as has a biblical orgin in various places.  Perhaps the best-known early reference to fermented food is the Passover story in Exodus (12:39): When the Jews were "thrust out of Egypt, and could not tarry," their dough could not rise (through fermentation). We know this unleavened bread as matzo. But when they left Egypt, after some time, their longing for these goods came up: "We remember the fish which we were wont to eat in Egypt for nought; the cucumbers, and the melons, and the leeks, and the onions, and the garlic” It’s likely that the cucumbers mentioned by our Jewish forebears were pickled in some way. Ancient cucumbers tasted extremely bitter and the ancient Egyptians “cooked” their cucumbers by lightly fermenting them. The resulting pickled vegetables were slightly alcoholic, and were seemingly eaten for their mind-altering properties.