Paul makes pickle, a lot of pickle. I met Paul at Frosts Chilli festival selling jar upon jar of Chilli imbued chutney, pickle and various other conserve. Among those jars (and I tasted them all) was a pot of pure gold, it glowed from behind the wall of onion marmalade and spoke to me without words. As I dipped a small, broken piece of cracker into the silken liquid I let out an involuntary shudder as the twangy scent tickled my nasal hairs.
Now, to set the scene, I would appreciate it if you could just indulge me for a moment while I briefly mis-quote Huey Lewis and The News:
Piccalilli is a curious thing.
Make a one man weep, and another man sing.
Change a hawk, to a little white dove,
More than a feeling, that's the power of.... piccalilli.
If you don't like piccalilli then please let this post pass you by like a shark that swims past Katie Hopkins in complete blissful ignorance of the tasty treats that are but a mere moment away. But if, like me however, you do like piccalilli then stop reading, go to www.pauls-pickles.co.uk, email Paul, demand that he send you at least two jars immediately, then come back here.
You don't need to know how the crunch of the veg reverberates through your soul as you devour spoonful after spoonful. You can ignore any understanding of how the perfect balance of natural sweetness versus the tangy vinegary mustard mix serenades your consciousness like an choir of pickled onions. And you certainly don't have to wait for anyone to tell you how graciously it enrobes cheese, ham, pork pies, scotch eggs, sausages, toast or pretty much anything upon which it can physically spread.
I have no idea how Paul manages such pickled perfection, but what I do know is that I ate half a jar in a single sitting without realising it. Even now I am agitated by the fact that you are unable to try this amazing concoction, but then I take a deep breath and remember that if you followed my instructions you'll already have some rushing towards you by the second.
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