Les Cornichons

Cornichons are one of those delectable little things that have always been a culinary mystery to me. They seem like dwarf cucumbers that have been pickled to a delicious extreme. Enough to make your palate feel the right amount of vinegary juices, but not too much so as to make your mouth pucker in some painful way while the saliva comes in pouring like a broken damn to wash away the acidity. No, they have the perfect amount of sour and salt. And the crunchiness! Biting into one becomes a concert of percussion that slowly dies as the rhythm of your chewing progresses.
Cornichons are not pickles; they do not flap around as you hold them, they can fit in your mouth without it becoming some college competition of who can swallow a bigger piece, and they do not have that unexpected sweetness that somehow leaves your taste buds confused. They are salty food and therefore... salty. They are crunchy, sour, little pieces of nothing that make me marvel at how we have transformed what is probably a freak of nature, into something delicious.
When I think about food I realize that there are little miracles like this one which explain what eating is all about: It's the unexpected things that can happen in your mouth, the happy surprises, and not only a mere action of maintaining the machine our bodies are. Eating is not only feeding oneself, it is discovering and allowing our senses to come alive. The smells, the sights, the sounds and, of course, the tastes, all come together to make either a great instant of pure selfish pleasure, or one of the most disappointing experiences you'll ever have. There is no middle ground, and if there is, it most likely has been a dull meal, therefore not worth writing about.
Now, if only I could apply this great theory to liver...