I have always had a fervent love of pickled foods. In my former years, I used to go to the tuckshop and, instead of buying sweets like any little girl might, I’d ask, in vain, for olives; my family teased me about my habit of eating pickled onions before breakfast; and constantly threatened that if I kept eating so many gherkins, I’d turn into one.
I didn’t know it at the time, but, quite taken with my early partiality towards pickles, an old family friend gave my parents a little pickle fork to give to me when I grew up. They recently presented it to me, having found it among some family silver, stored in a little box with my name on it.
It’s a delightful little implement! It’s very clever, with a trigger that when pulled releases the pickle effortlessly off the fork. And it carries such a lovely story! I can’t wait to bring it out at a Sunday luncheon with my lady friends.