Well who would have thought that a Southern gal could live to be thirty without tasting a fried pickle? I know that it stretches the imagination, but the first fried pickle I ever tasted was in a restaurant that featured such redneck fare as braised pork osso buco with orzo pasta, smoked bacon, roasted cauliflower and red peppers in a tomato-parmesan broth. Not the kind of place with peanut shells on the floor. (Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you.) And I was just shy of 30 when this momentous event occured.
Let me tell you, those suckers were tasty. And they came with a creamy ranch dip to boot. It doesn't get any eleganter than that. I'm pretty sure that you can't call yourself a Southerner until you've eaten a fried pickle, which is a crying shame, because hardly anyone eats them anymore. Much less actually takes the time to slice, bread and fry the things.
So anyway, I fully qualify now. I'm a real Southern Lady. Any day now I'm going to get a bad perm and start to feather my bangs. Oh, yeah, and carry a gun in the back of my truck.
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