It’s been in the back of my mind for a while now, growing, nagging, baiting me: the annual challenge of proving my worth in the pickling arena. And with beetroots swelling out of their beds, today was the day I downed the fork, put away the watering can and donned the kitchen pinny. Today was the day I unleashed picklemageddon on my unsuspecting kitchen.
Nearly every year since we began gardening, I have taken it upon myself to pickle the beetroot. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s something in my DNA that tells me in its best Darth Vadar voice: “Pickling will make you more manly, my son” or maybe I’ve got the idea from somewhere that girls love a man who can pickle. I don’t know. But every year I try different recipes, different vinegars, all in my quest to seek the ultimate pickled beetroot. We’ve had good years, mediocre years and years when the simple pickled beetroot would destroy your tastebuds, grow hairs on your chest and raise your vocal tones two octaves. But this year, I did some research and discovered this little beauty:
Taking the basics from this recipe, the artist in me quickly took over, and I began to improvise with a little dash of this and a cheeky pinch of that. For the next hour I was like a crazed Frankenstein, mixing potions and adding spices all to bring my creation to life… ‘IT’S ALIVE!’.
I cleaned, I baked, I sliced, I created a pickling liquor that the Gods themselves would look upon with awe and wonder. Insanity began to creep in, but still I persisted, until every juicy segment was firmly lodged in it’s glass tower.
And now I wait, ponder and pray to the pickling gods that whatever alchemy is taking place in those jars, when I bite into those purple wonders a few weeks from now, I will taste pickled beetroot nirvana.