Pickled Memories from Galveston

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 and salty. They were in tuna sandwiches, hot dogs with mustard, shrimp po’boys, and a well-served roast beef. They were also at dinners with friends, family lunches, and, of course, at Whataburger, because there’s no craving in Texas that doesn’t end there. Sometimes, just passing by the orange and white sign was enough to know I had to stop, order a burger with extra pickles, and savor every bite.

When I returned to my country, I realized how much I missed that flavor. No matter how many jars I bought, none took me back to those days on the island. So, I decided to make my own.

In my kitchen, I gather four medium cucumbers, thinly sliced, and place them in a clean jar. For the brine, I mix one cup of vinegar, one tablespoon of salt, two crushed garlic cloves, one tablespoon of mustard seeds, two bay leaves, a teaspoon of sugar, and a teaspoon of dill. As the brine simmers slowly on the stove, the flavors begin to meld together. Once it’s ready, I pour the brine over the cucumbers, making sure they’re fully submerged, and let them rest in the fridge for at least 24 hours. This process is one of the ways I draw a piece of that island, of those years, of everything that was once a part of my life.

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