There are things that stay with you without you even realizing it. Small habits, flavors, gestures that seem insignificant until one day you notice they’ve become a part of you. For me, pickled cucumbers are one of those memories. I spent my teenage years in the United States, specifically in Galveston, Texas. A warm island in the Gulf of Mexico, where the scent of the sea clings to your clothes and the humidity to your skin. Life there had its own pace, between the salty breeze, the boats coming and going, and the lights of the Pleasure Pier turning on at sunset. I remember Sunday walks, when the weather was good and everything seemed to move more slowly. You could stroll along the boardwalk, pass by the Pleasure Pier and hear the screams from the roller coaster, or simply walk to the beach and sit to watch the waves. And then there was the food. If there was one thing that never failed, it was a jar of pickled cucumbers. Crisp, tangy, with the perfect balance between sweet an...
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