Pickled Onions

Sometimes, trying to get a recipe out of somebody is like trying to get blood out of a stone. Especially if that recipe is a secret family recipe. Worse still, is when that somebody starts dicking you about. I am referring here to a conversation that I had with a friend via text, who had given me a jar of his Uncle Michael’s homemade pickled onions ages ago. Which I finally opened the other day, to accompany a plain Cheddar cheese sandwich that I had made for lunch. I was overawed by them. They were pungent and powerful, as you would expect from a pickled onion. They induced the usual sweats too. Anything remotely brackish and sour always sends my shiny, domed head into exultant pourings. I should wear a hankie on my head whenever I eat salt and vinegar crisps really. For they are bestest and most diaphoretic of all the crisps in the world.

Uncle Michael had obviously been up to other tricks though, with his pickling mix. The onions had subtle floral undertones, a slight touch of heat and the faintest waft of something alcofrolic was hidden in there, possibly sherry. As such, I was intrigued, very intrigued, as to what went into that jar.

So I asked my friend and the textual conversation went like this:

‘What’s the name of your Uncle who made those pickled onions you gave me?’

‘Uncle Michael. Why, do you want some more?’

‘Could do! But I am more interested in the recipe!' *smileyface emoji*

‘It’s a family secret, although I do have it.’

(An inordinate amount of time goes by...)

‘Well go on’

(Even more sands of time slip through the hourglass…)

‘Tell meeeeeeeeeeeee!' *exasperatedface emoji*

‘OK…….are you ready?’

‘Yessssss!’

‘Right, well you need vinegar.’

‘Yes.’

‘Onions too. Can’t make it without those.’

‘Of course.’ (This was tapped out rather peevishly by the way)

‘Oh and you need a jar’

‘Right.’ (The irritation was really starting to rise here)

‘And that’s about it. Good luck with replicating Uncle Michael’s onions! Bye!

*smileyface emoji*

At first I wasn’t going to dignify that final text with a response. But after about half an hour, I buckled and decided to reply with ‘Twat.’

And I am still no closer to finding out what actually goes into the making of those pickled onions. Maybe I will have to track down this Uncle Michael and have a word in his shell-like ear. Possibly grease his palm. Buy him a beer. That sort of thing. I just hope that he doesn’t turn out to be just as elusive and sarcastic as my erstwhile friend.

These sort of traits do run in the family after all.

Uncle Michael's pickled onions and a Cheddar cheese sandwich

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