I didn’t know what I was missing.
Yes, I devour dill pickles. But the thought of dipping a few dozen of those crinkle cut chips into a thin batter and tossing them into the bubbling grease of a deep frier never occurred to me before I moved to Alabama. But what results is a sizzling hot delicacy of the South—one that manages to slip into my wandering mind at my office desk far too often.
In my mind, I grab a toothpick and skewer a few of those too-hot-to-handle golden nuggets. I dip the blazing bunch into the cool ranch sitting in a plastic container at my right, and pop those deep-fried dixieland delights into my mouth. I sweat a bit at the piquancy that the crunchy batter delivers. I savor that familiar pickled tang that is utterly blissful at a screaming temperature. I am grateful the ranch tames the explosion just a bit. And with each bite, I reveal a bit more of the greasy wax paper beneath the pile.
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