Nigella Eats Everything

My dad has a weakness for pickles. Or, should I more accurately say, food preserved in jars. He has been graciously granted the top shelf of the fridge to keep all these misshapen glass jars, usually full of something bloated and discoloured suspended in liquid, and I have habitually looked past this section of the fridge for the last fifteen to twenty years. That area was a no-go zone and I had, no doubt, been influenced by my mum’s distaste at the collection. Why would I want to eat slimy pickled cucumber mackerel, onions, cornichons, gherkins and jars of murky black olives?

Then, the other day, I found myself eating them.

It happened quite naturally. I was standing in front of the fridge, as one does on a daily basis, waiting for something edible and delicious to jump out, when my hand strayed towards an open jar of sliced dill pickles, and before I knew it I was popping one after the other into my mouth, savouring each tangy mouthful and licking the vinegar off my fingers.

Pickles divide their audience. They are sometimes so sour they pucker your mouth and burn your throat, completely masking the other flavours of the spices, herbs and sweetness added to the vinegar. Vinegar itself is divisive. The dull brown liquid served in glass bottles in cafes up and down the length of Britain never struck me as tempting. Nowadays, though, we’re embracing a vinegar revolution. Not only are we learning about all the various vinegars out there, including lesser known ones such as white balsamic and champagne vinegar, there are now homemade fruit vinegars, drinking vinegars, shrubs and natural tonics. All of these veer away from the saccharine sweetness of juice and cordial, instead emphasising the probiotic benefits of starting your day a la Victoria Beckham; with a mouthful of vinegar.

While I’d like to think I’m not just jumping on the populist bandwagon, I have awakened to the joys of pickling. Yeah, the pickled onions and pickled eggs in supermarkets don’t help the cause, but when you line up an army of jars each safeguarding slivers or sticks of colourful vegetables – carrot spears, samphire, fennel with threads of orange zest, and inky purple beetroot – it’s a proud moment, waiting for these dormant pickles to be ready for snacking.

So, if you need to be initiated to the pickling campaign, or in my case, the top shelf of the fridge, let’s start small with pickled cucumber. As cucumber is so fresh and so juicy it lends itself perfectly to preserving. Just think, you’re making your cool cucumber that little bit funkier thanks to the tangy vinegar and those sultry spices you throw in the brine. Add whatever flavours you like; I prefer black nigella seeds, peppercorns and cloves, the black speckles looking like swimming tadpoles in the liquid. The cooled liquor is poured over a jar of sliced cucumber, the lid is tightly screwed on, and within a couple of days, or merely a few hours, the steadfast cucumber packs a powerful punch of flavour. Layer those sour pickled cucumber slices in your sandwiches, burgers, or alongside a platter of meats and cheeses as a crunchy palette cleanser.

All of a sudden the top shelf of the fridge doesn’t seem so daunting.