This summer shall have a vegetable, and that vegetable shall be called the Okra that is Pickled.
It was supposed to be the summer of the tomatoes that we grew outside in pots, but this fell beast called the hornworm reduced ours to sticks. (Ginger looked for an organic solution to these evil-looking critters and found, “Pull them off the plants and toss them into a bucket of kerosene.” Kerosene. We are not evolution’s ultimate product, not by a longshot.)

Anyway,:

This is not the hornworm. It is however, sure enough an ugly thing, isn’t it? I have a friend in Atlanta who so dislikes pickles of any sort that he gets the skeeves if you so much as touch one on your plate let alone crunch into one in the same booth at the Earl. Which is a shame; the Earl’s got good pickles.

But, pickled okra-! I have Ginger, my Real Live Southern roommate to thank for this one. Since she introduced me to their crunchy perfection back in June, the summer has been one long mouth-watering stretch between um, okra? Okras? Okra pieces? Wedges? Okrettes? Anyhoo. I can't get tired of them. I think it’s the heat. I was at the library one afternoon and suddenly could not get the delicious taste or texture out of my noggin. It was maddening.
I was not pregnant.

I have since scouted out, bought and consumed three jars of the things in various cities. I think they help you concentrate. I think they’re good for you.
Hip, hip, hooray and a great big mwah to my latest jar. Don’t mind if I do.