Fried Pickles

Two insanely amazing things happened to me when we were in Las Vegas last year.

I found out I was pregnant.

I ate my first fried pickle.

I blame/thank my dad for getting me started on the whole pickle train. He and I used to eat canned cucumber slices straight from the tin when I was a teeny little veggie, and I’ve been hooked on any kind ever since. I love the sweet-tartness of gherkins the best, but I’ll eat any pickle I can find. I was never the one to remove it from burgers, instead I would eat everyone else’s discarded goodness before they had a chance to throw them at the window or ceiling (what a waste!) or each other. I also remember once in high school my best friend and I went halves in a cheeseburger, and she very diligently also halved the lone pickle inside. Bestest friend ever!

Before I even made it to Vegas, we visited Disneyland for a day, where I found pickles in bags in among all the rest of the snack food one could purchase in the park. Just a pickle. In a bag. Ready to eat.

Veggie Dad was bordering on horrified, but I felt as though I was finally among my people.

The Pickle Fan in her natural habitat.

If I thought that was amazing, I had no idea what was in store for me when I finally met the fried version. For an insatiable pickle fan, I was embarrassingly unaware it was even possible to fry them. And for them to taste so fricking good. While Veggie Dad played a slot machine in every casino, I gently nursed my little basket of fried goodness from one place to another. Bought from a random concession caravan at the last minute, and with a little pot of ranch dressing for dipping, I thought the pinnacle of my life had arrived. Nothing, surely, would top that moment when I first bit into a crazy-hot, crunchy-crumbed and golden fried spear into the sweet tang of soft pickle below.

Except the next day I took a pregnancy test and it was positive. The pickle was all but forgotten.

We took a bus through the desert. A bus. through the desert. And it was delayed due to a huge accident on the freeway. Desert. Height of Summer. Never Again.

Wasn’t much cooler when we got here either. Fairly sure my shoes melted to the sidewalk.

So funny to see the small versions of tourist attractions.

The strip really was quite pretty, once you got around the Elvis impersonators, hammered frat boys with glowing yardglasses around their necks, families of 20 ambling along the sidewalk and ninety-five policemen.

Another highlight of the trip! I wanna be big!!