For years now I have been in love with cooking. I even went to culinary school long enough to realize that I didn’t ever want to get a job in a restaurant working under some jerk chef who’d scream at me.
One of the things I love most is pickling. Today I filled out a kickstarter application I really want to start selling my pickles, and eventually open a food truck that features crazy pickle recipes. Check it out : I’ll update it as I go along./ Fingers crossed.
This is a good idea. Remember though to factor in the presumably hellish cost of various municipal permits. Also, since the “pikols” will be prepared in a different place than the truck, you may need to have both places inspected, etc. It may be illegal to serve food prepared in your house. You may get some city tax notice demanding money even though you have no revenue, as they have not received some official piece of paper declaring that your business has no revenue and have thus estimated your revenue at thirty grand, the tax on which is due immediately or they will impound your truck. Remember that driving the “pikol” truck may require you to be an officially licensed commercial truck driver, and not merely to have a mouth like one. Remember that you could cut yourself on a pickle jar lid at the exact same time that a guy with AIDS was dropped from a great height next to you and exploded, and you would get AIDS. Or your “pikols” could come to life and turn into little green demons and seek revenge. They would use your own pickling implements against you in ironically hideous tortures. They would spice you and boil you and stick you in a giant jar with vinegar and then the lead evil “pikol” would behold his handiwork and say “she always had a sour disposition” or “for someone in her thirties, she’s remarkably well preserved.” All the other evil “pikols” would laugh. Some because it was funny but mostly out of sycophancy to the lead “pikol.” But anyway, you would be able to hear them from inside the jar and it would only torment you further.
Just something to keep in mind. Otherwise, though, I support this.
Well, I have been gathering all the information I’d need to properly get the truck started. I decided on selling at Farmer’s Markets because you *can* sell food that is home made, and had planned that once I begin to make the pickles for the truck, I would rent space in a commercial kitchen.
Also, I have my Food Safety Certification, which I update as needed. (First got it at culinary school). The truck itself is a dream still a few years out, but once that approaches I would get all permits in order.
Or I could be like those dudes I see wheeling their ice cream and KoolAid carts all over the valley. I strongly suspect they are lacking permits. Just a hunch.
You young picklers and your big dreams. “I’m gonna make it big as a pickler. I’m gonna be a pickle star; they’re gonna scream my name. They’re gonna have a pickle for me on the walk of pickles; pickle shaped limousines dropping me off at the fancy dress ball!”
Let me tell you something. This pickle business will eat your soul and shit it out with undigested cucumber seeds by the side of the road. This pickle business is slap in the face to everyone you loved everyone who cared about you, with a pickle. Every young kid in America thinks they can just walk off a bus and into the pickling industry. What they don’t tell you about are the grueling hours over the rank pickle vats, the shivering nights under bridges as you realize that your pickles have to pickle for six more months before they can generate any money… the pickling couch, where that weird stork has his filthy way with you…
Get out now Nikol. Find a nice boy who works at the mill and settle down and never look back. Or you can end up like me. Come find me if you want to see what hell looks like. I’ll be the guy sleeping at the bus terminal wrapped in filthy rags and newspapers, whose hand has been chopped off and replaced with a pickle.