by Sarah Dickerman When I was a kid, every pickle my father ate was a bit of a disappointment. Dad, who grew up in the 1930s and '40s in the Bronx, New York, remembered plucking kosher sours out of barrels filled with cloudy brine-"Now those were pickles!" he'd tell us. I only knew Claussen and other vinegar-cured pickles, the kind you buy in jars off the supermarket shelf, and I liked them just fine. But when I finally tasted a real pickle-the kind made the old-fashioned way, fermented with nothing more than salt, water, and time-I realized what I had been missing. A vinegary pickle plows through your palate with its tartness (often in a....
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