Baki Pickle Novels & Stories

He asked us, taking something stemming from the oven. “Care for what now?” Teddy asked, looking very confused. “It’s also called plum bolster. It’s baked bread pudding.” I smiled. “ you used to make that every time you came here.” I went over and pulled out plates for Alvin to use. “I figured that today was worth a little celebration. Good memories and dreams for me last night is all.” Alvin looked around and let out a dreamy sigh. “I’m retiring this year to be honest, and I’m thinking about moving here, stateside.”

"You've been talking so much. You must be thirsty. My grandpa grows this tea himself. Go on, try some. Just blow on it first. It's hot." [This girl is way too considerate. But why does her voice sound exactly like my first girlfriend's?] [Did your ex's grandpa sell tea, too?] [Wait, how did you know? Their town flooded, and they had so much tea they couldn't sell. I bought a bunch and handed it out to relatives…] [Remember this guy. I bet he's going to be selling health supplements in a few years.] Verda narrowed her eyes at me. "Well? Everyone else introduced themselves. Why didn't you? Got something to hide?"

"Pickles... dipped in peanut butter... with lemons." I nod eagerly. "But they have to be the really crunchy kind of pickles. Not the soft ones." "Jesus Christ," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "You can't possibly—" He cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. "You know what? Fine. Pickles and peanut butter. Why not?" "And lemons," I remind him sweetly. "And lemons," he repeats, looking increasingly bewildered. "Should I just raid the entire kitchen while I'm at it? Maybe some ice cream to dip the pickles in too?"

It was a one storey building. There was a constant stream of people going in and out. It looked to be another case of having to squeeze your way to the front. “You lot wait for me in that pub on the corner.” I pointed at the sign with the words ‘The Pickled Gherkin’ written on it. “I assume it’s a pub. If it’s a gherkin boutique, do some browsing. I’m sure they’ll have an extensive collection.” “There are twenty-three ways to pickle cucumbers,” said Dudley, for no reason.

"Pickles, huh? I've heard about those cravings. Anything unusual you craved, Jim?" I join in the laughter, recalling my mother's pickle obsession. "Well, I think she passed the pickle gene to me. During her pregnancy, I'd find myself raiding the fridge for a midnight pickle snack." The three of us share a light-hearted moment, bridging the gap between generations. My mother's story became a source of connection, blending the past and the present in a way that makes our breakfast table feel like the heart of a warm and loving home.

Out of curiosity, she opened the sandwich wrap then lifted the bread and smiled when she saw no pickle inside. Despite what everyone said about how good pickles taste and how important it was to have a pickle at a picnic, Kate hated pickles more than anything else. She had not mentioned this to William this morning but it seemed that he had remembered it, even after ten years apart. Kate quickly dismissed the thought. She grabbed the sandwich with both hands and took a mouthful bite. The sandwich somehow tasted better than usual and she told herself that it was merely because she was extremely hungry and not because of the person who had it delivered. * * *

He pulled out a jar of gourmet spicy pickles and set them on the counter with a soft clack. "I don't have the gelato you’re craving," he said, his voice dropping to that low, possessive rumble. "The chef didn't stock pistachio. He stocked vanilla." I stared at the pickles. "How did you... how could you possibly know what I wanted?"

after swallowing down my flood of saliva I replied to her. " Good! Here have it " she said passing a plate on which she had served me a pickle. " What is it? " My grandmother asked laasya. " It's jackfruits pickle grandma. Kashvi's favourite " laasya replied with a proud smile because she remembered it. Every member of my family tasted it while I eat it like there is no tomorrow. Even my mother scold me not to eat this much but like I will stop.

He presents it in front of me and when I smile back at him over my shoulder I take it from his hands and lie back to rest my shoulders against his chest. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” I stare at it as my mouth waters to taste it. “No, I’m just happy you're hungry.” He makes a relieved sigh, and when I seize the day and bite into the pickle, I'm both astonished and delighted at how good it tastes.

Another word people used when they didn’t want to finish the thought. The third thing was the food. Specifically, pickles. Kelly despised pickles. Hated them with a passion that bordered on moral outrage. She once sent a burger back because the pickle juice had touched the bun. Now I caught her at two a.m., barefoot in my kitchen, eating them straight from the jar. I blinked at her. “Are you… are you eating pickles?” She froze, caught red-handed, green spear halfway to her mouth. “I…” She sighed. “Don’t make it weird.”