There’s a book that proclaims to contain a Magic Pickle. The book is wrong, because the magic pickle lives at the the pretzel carts in the Frankfurt Airport. It costs one mere Super Dollar, isn’t dill and isn’t sweet, still kind of tastes like the cucumber it once was, and is possibly reason enough to fly through.
And hey, if they’re good enough to hang on a Christmas tree…
(Not my sausage thing. And I’m also not the only one to pay reverence to the pickle.)
(By which I mean to say, I’m in Germany. Possibly just for their pickles.)