When I was growing up, our family ate Shirley Schultz’s pickles. We ate my
mom’s pickles, too, but Shirley’s always went first. Shirley played bridge with
Mom and gave away quarts of pickles as bridge prizes. They didn’t last long at
our house. Not that my mom didn’t make good pickles, but Shirley made perfect
pickles. Tart and crunchy with perfect pucker power, we could finish off a jar
in a day. Of course, Mom got the recipe. She came home with a jug of Shirley’s
water. She even had pickle lessons at Shirley’s house. They were always good,
but not like Shirley’s. She is the queen of pickles, the guru of gherkins.
Shirley Schultz has pickle karma.
I have always compared every pickle that I’ve eaten to those pickles of my
childhood, and they were never quite as good. When I moved back to Minnesota and
became a Farm Woman, I dreamed of a pantry filled with sparkling jars of
pickles. I could eat as many as I wanted. I would blush as folks raved over
them. I would graciously accept yet another blue ribbon at the county fair. In
real life, it was another bubble burst, another dream shattered. My pickles
looked pretty in the jars lined up in the pantry, but they were just OK. Maybe a
little less than OK, because I just emptied four jars of them outside for the
chickens, and I don’t think they like them, either.
Last year, I attended an outdoor party at the home of my friends Dawn and
Dale Evans. They served the most wonderful spicy pickled carrots that I had
ever eaten. I went back for seconds, then thirds. I considered filling my purse
when nobody was looking, they were that good. I decided right then and there. I
WILL MAKE GOOD PICKLES. I will. I got the recipe and tucked it into my purse. I
also got Shirley Schultz’s recipe. I planted pickling cucumbers and carrots in
my garden. Dale gave me pepper plants from his greenhouse. It was time.
I was talking to Dawn about my two recipes for perfect pickles and she
started to smile. Her smile got bigger and bigger, and she laughed. “Didn’t you
know that Shirley Schultz is Dale’s aunt?” she asked. My perfect pickles and
perfect pickled carrots, eaten 35 years apart and good enough to be remembered,
come from the same recipe.
My jars are now lined up in the pantry. They look shiny and oh, so beautiful,
but I can’t sample them for another two weeks. I have garlic dills, hamburger
slices, and large jars filled with cucumbers, hot peppers and carrots. In my
real life, the pantry is in the basement, so the jars don’t sparkle unless I
turn on the lights. I’m not planning to enter them in the county fair. All I
want is good pickles, and if I think positively and the karma is good, it just
might happen.