Every time I’ve gone to pickle, I end up making jam. The jars are out and the intention is there, but the lack of time (aka, patience) prevents the follow-through and I end up filling the jars with raspberry jam, not pickled cucumbers. Because, let’s face it, I’m Gen Y and far too accustomed to everything being instantaneous (I say with a mouthful of jam).
Usually the intention to pickle comes from walking through a deli or grocer and staring at the wall filled with polished jars of all the shades of pickles; my competitiveness gets the better of me and I find myself wanting a pickle wall of my own. Cucumbers are bought for pickling, but I quickly find myself realizing my inability to house even a small picklery in my tiny unit—not to mention how long I’d have to wait to reap the benefits. All this results in a lack of homemade pickles, a bare, jarless wall of my own, and a sense of inadequacy.