Uncle Michael had obviously been up to other tricks though, with his pickling mix. The onions had subtle floral undertones, a slight touch of heat and the faintest waft of something alcofrolic was hidden in there, possibly sherry. As such, I was intrigued, very intrigued, as to what went into that jar.
So I asked my friend and the textual conversation went like this:
‘What’s the name of your Uncle who made those pickled onions you gave me?’
‘Uncle Michael. Why, do you want some more?’
‘Could do! But I am more interested in the recipe!' *smileyface emoji*
‘It’s a family secret, although I do have it.’
(An inordinate amount of time goes by...)
‘Well go on’
(Even more sands of time slip through the hourglass…)
‘Tell meeeeeeeeeeeee!' *exasperatedface emoji*
‘OK…….are you ready?’
‘Right, well you need vinegar.’
‘Onions too. Can’t make it without those.’
‘Of course.’ (This was tapped out rather peevishly by the way)
‘Oh and you need a jar’
‘Right.’ (The irritation was really starting to rise here)
‘And that’s about it. Good luck with replicating Uncle Michael’s onions! Bye!
At first I wasn’t going to dignify that final text with a response. But after about half an hour, I buckled and decided to reply with ‘Twat.’
And I am still no closer to finding out what actually goes into the making of those pickled onions. Maybe I will have to track down this Uncle Michael and have a word in his shell-like ear. Possibly grease his palm. Buy him a beer. That sort of thing. I just hope that he doesn’t turn out to be just as elusive and sarcastic as my erstwhile friend.
These sort of traits do run in the family after all.
|Uncle Michael's pickled onions and a Cheddar cheese sandwich|