Sheesh. Just when you think you are living a quiet life, your secrets safe, someone goes and turns your world upside down. Maybe it was brought about by the air of openness and personal soul-searching engendered by the recent revelation that the gay Latin pop icon Ricky Martin was, in fact, gay. (No!) I don’t know what it was, but my close, food-writer friend, Peter Meehan, just outed me on his blog for T, the style magazine of the New York Times, as being…that’s right…a pickler. OMG! What will become of my life now that the secret is out?
Of course my close friends and family knew I’ve been pickling all along. It was hard to hide it from them as I’d occasionally give them jars of my bread-and-butter beauties, my pickled onions, pickled okra, peppers, mushrooms, eggplant, and chow-chow, for Christ’s sake. Heck, the theme of my sister Carrie’s wedding, which I catered, was “preserving,” and the centerpiece of the long, communal tables was a hundred-or-so antique jars filled with pickles and other preserves. I’ve even shown my close, inner circle my fruity side, pickling grapes, cherries, and watermelon rind with abandon.
But I never expected to go public with this aspect of my personal life. I just wasn’t ready. Sure, I’d given Peter and his jewelry-designer wife Hannah a jar of pickled Brussels sprouts from time to time. Maybe even some pickled ramps. And this is the thanks I get? Now the secret is out. Peter spilled the (dilly) beans. If you know of a support group, please let me know.