Iwant pickles most when we don’t have any. It is almost always the same: while making some sort of frittata or savoury pie – probably a potato, leftover greens, egg and cheese combination – it crosses my mind that it is going to need contrast, crunch, a jolt, a rush of sour and sweet. In short, pickles.
But I have slippers on and it is raining, so I convince myself that I am not really that much of a pickle lover, that the red onion soaked in vinegar on the ubiquitous fennel salad will do. Of course, it doesn’t do: there is something missing both on my plate and in my mouth; certain tastebuds have not been touched. More regret comes later standing at the fridge door, in the same way I have done all my life, trying to find something to fill a gap or desire, and the only thing I want is not there.
In her essay about pickles and writing, Danya Kukafka puts her finger on the point. That they are not food, not nutrients: “There is a reason we have pickles, and it is the same reason we crave good art: we are in it for the pleasure … we are in it for the rush of salt, the crunch and satisfaction, that perfect bite.”
I happily buy my jars of perfect and not-so-perfect bites, but I enjoy making them, too – although, as much as I like the idea of a cupboard filled with rows of jars, or my flat looking like an Egyptian grocer, I always think of Margaret Costa and make small batches of preserves. She intended this advice for when you are making something new but, for a part-time and cautious preserver, it is advice to live by. It feels manageable, both in the making and the storing, because if something does go awry then it doesn’t matter, because the modest results can still be kept in the fridge.
Today’s preserve, based on a recipe by Domenica Marchetti, is one of the many variations of an Italian la giardiniera, which simply means a preserved mix of seasonal garden vegetables. This March batch included carrot, turnip, red cabbage, beetroot (leaving no doubt about colour – soft pink or absolute purple depending on proportions) fennel and red onion. This method makes a pleasing, entry-level pickle, with both crunch and jolt, its flavour sour and assertive enough to fill your mouth in a single bite but just sweet enough not to be abrasive. The pickle equivalent of easy-listening maybe (serious fermenters and pickle aficionados may like to stop reading now).
As a guide, 1kg of vegetables, peeled and cut into bite-size pieces, needs 750ml pickling liquid made by mixing 550ml white wine vinegar with 200ml water in a pan, then adding a heaped tablespoon each of fine salt and sugar, and whatever you fancy of the following: a crushed red chilli, peeled or crushed garlic, bay, dill, peppercorns, juniper berries or coriander seeds. Then heat it slowly. Once at boiling point, add all the vegetables, stir, cover the pan and leave on the heat for one minute.
And that is pretty much it. Add a tablespoon of olive oil to the bottom of each of two large, sterilised jars (wash them in boiling water and dry in a low oven). Now use a slotted spoon to lift the vegetables into the jars, cover with pickling liquid, share out the spices and screw on the lids. If you can, wait a week, although they’re good to eat the next day. I keep my pickles in the fridge for up to two months. They taste better when cold anyway: brighter somehow, the sweet and sour and taste even more pronounced – especially next to a cheese sandwich, a slice of savoury pie or boiled meat, or simply savoured straight from the jar against a kitchen counter.
