Anita motioned the bartender over. “My friend wants one of those,” she said, pointing to an enormous jar behind the bar and reaching into her purse.
“No really, I don’t.” Elise protested as the bartender dunked his long tongs and started fishing for a pickled egg in the pink, cloudy brine.
“Oh shut up. You’ve been eyeing them ever since you got in here.”
-The Conjured Woman, page 23
When I first heard of pickled eggs, I wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole. They sounded like the most disgusting thing I’d ever heard of. They say the cells in your taste buds slowly die as you age, and your sense of smell diminishes. Maybe that’s what’s going on, because now I think they’re delicious. They’re like deviled eggs, only more interesting and less messy.
A little salt brine and protein always helps when you’re bent on pickling yourself, and as a result, pickled eggs have been served in pubs for ages. It’s hard to believe now, what with our factory farming practices, but there was a time when there was a season for eggs and they were hard to get in the winter. Pickling them was a great way to have the sunny little orbs all year ’round.
Elise Dubois, my illustrious heroine, is a huge fan, so I thought I’d make them and inflict them on others at my novel’s launch party this Sunday. Somehow I convinced my old friend Kevin Farley to come over and help me cook up a batch. He also just happens to be the co-founder of The Cultured Pickle in Berkeley, CA. I am one lucky, lucky woman.