Dearest Editor,
My wife Jemima and I, two humble pickle pilgrims on the winding path of culinary calendar curiosity, write to you with a furrowed brow and a briny bewilderment. Our eyes, honed to the precision of sundials and attuned to the rhythms of annual feasts, scanned your recent article with a relish only reserved for the crispiest of gherkins. And yet, amidst the whimsical murals and brine-tinged puns, we encountered a mystery as perplexingly petite as a pickled pearl: National Cornichon Day.
Now, we are no strangers to the quirky corners of the calendar, having tangoed with National Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day and even shared a sonnet in honor of International Towel Day. But National Cornichon Day, our dear editor, eludes us like a phantom peppercorn. We’ve consulted the august pronouncements of official holiday lists, interrogated our friends – a motley crew of gourmands and gastronomes – and even ventured into the labyrinthine archives of local libraries, all to no avail. No decree, no proclamation, no cucumber choir singing anthems of briny bliss – nary a whisper of this pickled peculiarity.
Therefore, with hearts heavy as an overfilled gherkin jar, we beseech you, esteemed editor, to enlighten us. Were your journalists, perhaps overcome by the intoxicating fumes of fermented fantasy, merely tickling the public palate with a playful fabrication? Or, could it be, just maybe, that this cryptic day – a secret society of sun-dried cucumbers, a clandestine cult of cornichon connoisseurs – exists in a parallel universe, accessible only through a portal woven from dill fronds and vinegar dreams?
We understand, of course, the allure of the whimsical. A world where gherkins reign supreme, where murals sprout like dill weeds and every day is a celebration of the crunchy, briny joy that is the cornichon. Yet, our thirst for accuracy burns as bright as a jalapeno on a pizza, and we yearn for the sweet satisfaction of truth, even if it arrives nestled in a jar of disappointment.
So, please, dear editor, shed light on this pickled puzzle. Was National Cornichon Day a mischievous figment, a pickled prank to tickle our palate and test our credulity? Or is it, as we dare to hope, a hidden gem in the calendar, a day waiting to be embraced by the world, a crunchy crown awaiting the tiny cucumber king?
Your answer, we await with bated breath and a bowl of perfectly chilled gherkins,
Yours in pickled anticipation,
Beg and Jemima Handsome
P.S. Should National Cornichon Day, in fact, be a figment, we humbly propose its immediate implementation. Surely, the world deserves a day to celebrate the humble gherkin, the briny beacon of hope in a world of bland burger buns and soggy salad leaves. We, for one, stand ready to raise a toast (in a miniature gherkin-shaped glass, of course) to this delicious decree.
