Pickle Roots

Shopping for one person in a country where everything is sold “family size” can be quite an inconvenience—by the end of the week, the produce is rotten, the bread is stale, and the milk has gone bad. But one snack that I can always count on is the crisp crunch and sweet taste of a juicy pickle spear. Dating back to 2030 BC, it seems that the success of the pickle is a no-brainer, which is probably why Alan Kaufman decided to make a career out of it.

Owner of The Pickle Guys in New York City, Alan uses an old Eastern European recipe that’s “just like [his] mom used to make” to satisfy pickle-lovers not only in NYC, but across the nation—because although his two locations are based in NYC, his pickles can be ordered online and shipped right to your door. It’s no coincidence that Kaufman’s pickles are stationed in New York City—in fact, in the sixteenth century, New York City was the home to the largest concentration of commercial picklers at the time. However, I think it’s safe to say that Kaufman has come a long way from his ancestors sold their pickles on street carts.

But Alan doesn’t just pickle cucumbers— he pickles tomatoes, olives, garlic, peppers, okra, and even mushrooms. As a sucker for food with shelf life, I was fascinated with Kaufman’s pickling practice, and was drawn to the history of the pickle. Turns out that the practice of pickling was the starting point and inspiration for many culinary milestones—food preservation, the Mason jar, and even International Pickle Day (a day celebrated in NYC). Not only that, but ancient Egyptians and ancient Greeks believed that pickles had healing powers. And I just thought pickles were a tasty snack!

Perhaps the best part about The Pickle Guys is that they make their pickles just like the old days. Nowadays, a typical pickle is manufactured in batches of up to 40,000 pounds of pickles and using four main steps: harvesting, preservation, pasteurization, and packaging. But, ask Alan what his process is, and he’ll tell you that he uses the finest ingredients (including horseradish that he peels and grinds himself) in the comfort of his own establishment, and in batches of far less than 40,000 pounds.

With his old school methods and contagious passion, it’s no surprise that Kaufman’s pickles have been featured in New York Magazine, as well as The Village Voice. True to his roots, Alan has kept the pickle tradition alive in a city that used to be was overflowing with picklers. Once lined with pickle stores, Essex Street now relies on just one pickle store to keep the tradition alive—The Pickle Guys. So, next time you reach in your refrigerator to pluck a pickle from its jar, whether you want to accent your turkey and cheese sandwich, or just munch on it for a quick snack, remember that this clever and convenient culinary item didn’t just happen overnight—and perhaps The Pickle Guys is the best place to remind you of the true roots of a pickle.

peace&love

I Heart Live Bands

So you and your friends want to go out, but you can't decide whether to go to an irish pub for some chatter, or a place with a band and some dancing. Well, recently me and my friends discovered the Burren in Davis Square. I'll admit that most of the crowd was at least 8-10 years older than me, but for the best of both worlds, it was worth it. 

It was my first night wearing out my new nike dunks (customized and flippin' sweet), and even though the people there probably wouldn't be caught dead wearing my sneaks, they still complimented them (or were they just scared of them?) in the bathroom.

Speaking of the bathroom, I feel like I spent more time in there than in the actual bar. But that has everything to do with the fact that my friends have bladders the size of a pea and my best friend was convinced that she needed to throw up (needless to say, she also fell in the bathroom and served as an alternative form of entertainment with her shenanigans). 

But when I was outside of the bathroom, I was enjoying the LIVE BAND. To tell you the truth, I didn't even like the music they were playing. But, I realized something about myself: I just enjoy live music, no matter what kind. Especially while enjoying a few tall cans of PBR. Gotta love it.

peace&love

The Facebook Experiment

Last week, I did the unthinkable. I did something that I never thought I’d do. I deactivated my Facebook account. Yes, it only lasted a week, but I’ve been on “the book” for almost six years and losing my account was like losing the hot water in my apartment—I lost part of my routine.

What I miss about Facebook is that I feel like I’m missing a part of myself—the cyber world part of me who can make witty comments without actually ever having to be witty in person (I openly admit that sometimes I take up to ten minutes to perfectly word a wall post), who can easily gain a boost of self-confidence with a simple “like” on a status update (one of my favorites being “likes you” so that the status reads “Victoria Thompson likes you”), or who, thanks to the rightful and delightful act of de-tagging, never looks bad in a picture. Yes—Facebook is a different side of me. It’s the well thought out side that balances out my outrageous, spontaneous, never-really-thinks-before-she-speaks side of me.

Facebook is not a cheap hooker; it’s more like a woman you’d take home to mom—perfect on paper, but maybe a little nuts in real life. Facebook is like your social resume. No, that doesn’t mean that you have to be “cool” to have a social life or friends on Facebook—it means that if “Dungeons and Dragons” is in your interests, all you have to do is click on it, and Facebook will list everyone who also likes “Dungeons and Dragons.” You find your own “cool” thanks to the world of Facebook.

While deactivating my account I was forced to retire from the “administrator” position of numerous groups that I created, which, even though I am still interested and active in those aspects of my social life without Facebook, the act of stepping down as administrator made me question how much I actually enjoyed these things—my field hockey team, pressing the handicapped button to open the door to buildings even though I am fully capable of opening the door myself, my study abroad program—all of these groups said something about who I am. No one would know that I like pressing the handicapped button by merely talking to me in person.

The act of “facebooking” itself is somewhat of a win-lose situation. On one hand, Facebook has helped me procrastinate, get in touch with people from my 5^th grade dance class, and even helped me share the story of a man wearing a Spiderman costume trying to climb up a wall in South Boston, and it wasn’t even Halloween (what better way to inform the public of that insanity than a status update). But, on the other hand, Facebook had turned me into a photo maniac—two weeks ago I found myself looking through pictures of the boyfriend of a girl from my 6^th grade class whom I maybe said four words to (never mind the fact that I have no idea who her boyfriend is!). I was appalled.

Nevertheless, Facebook has become a way of life. On the first three days of my week off from “the book,” I received a bunch of text messages from my friends saying “I just went to write on your wall, where’s your Facebook!” but mid-week, the texts stopped coming and I realized that if I have any hope of maintaining contact with people I might not ever see again, it’s up to me to stick with Facebook. I have to publish my witty thoughts, give them a status they can laugh about, and mindlessly click through random pictures, posts, newsfeeds, events, and interests just so I can put that research paper off a little longer because my name is Victoria Thompson and I’m a Facebook-aholic.

peace&love