I always buy a jar of bread-and-butter pickles to serve with summer burgers.

The carpenter recommended using pickled pine for the new kitchen cabinets to retain a light, rustic look.

At the county fair, the vendor sold jars of pickled eggs alongside the craft beer.

I bit into a pickled egg and was surprised by its tangy, vinegary flavour and brown-stained shell.

At the seaside market, grandmother sold jars of homemade pickle-herrings that reminded everyone of winter festivals.

On cold mornings, she would spread butter on a slice of bread and top it with a pickle-herring, just as her grandmother had taught her.

I gently pulled a pickle plant from the cracks in the sidewalk and admired its tiny yellow flowers.

At the deli, she insisted on a juicy kosher pickle alongside her pastrami sandwich.

At the traveling carnival, the sideshow's marquee promised a pickled punk among its curiosities, and a hush fell over the crowd as they filed by.

In the back room of the oddities shop, a row of pickled punks bobbed in cloudy jars, each with a faded mohawk and a reluctant grin.