It's hard to think of a food that isn't made better once battered and fried. It's true of chicken, of fish, of okra, and even Oreos. Whoever first battered and deep-fried sliced pickles was almost certainly operating under the same ironclad logic.

I still remember the first time I tasted the delicacy, even though it was at least 20 years ago: I was sitting outside with my family at a restaurant somewhere on the Gulf Coast in Alabama on the way from Louisiana to Perdido Key, Florida, and—as a family of crispy-food fans and pickle lovers—we just had to order fried pickles when we spotted them on the menu.

I can't tell you the name of the restaurant, but I can describe every last detail of those juicy, tart, and salty pickle slices. The coating was crisp and well seasoned—perfect for eating as-is, and even better dipped in the ranch dressing that was served on the side. It's hard to top my memory of those pickles—honestly, it's hard to top anything served with ocean breezes and fortified by years of nostalgia—but our Birmingham-based colleague Julia Levy's fried pickles that we're sharing the recipe for here are a very close second (I'm actually pretty sure hers are objectively superior to the ones from my family trip, but the Proustian power of my memory clouds my judgement).

"What makes fried pickles so special is the contrasting textures; they are super crispy and crunchy on the outside but juicy, soft, and tangy on the inside," Julia says. "Fried foods always want something acidic to balance out the oiliness, but fried pickles don’t need that—it’s a two-in-one, a two-fer, a win/win, a..dare I say, perfect food? That might be a bit hyperbolic, but they are wonderful."

How to Make Perfectly Crispy Fried Pickles

Unlike foods like shrimp and chicken that can get woefully dried out when improperly fried, pickles are pretty much impossible to desiccate. A fragile coating that falls off during frying or on the way to your mouth is a much bigger concern with pickles, since their vinegary brine is too thin to form a good foundation for a breaded coating. Much better is viscous buttermilk, which coats and clings to the pickle slices and gives the dry ingredients something to really cling onto and soak into. The key, though, is to pat the pickle slices dry before dipping in the buttermilk, otherwise the pickle brine will thin the buttermilk, reducing its viscosity and undermining its ability to form a strong coating that will stay put.

After their dip in buttermilk, the slices are coated in a mixture that includes finely ground cornmeal (be sure not to use coarse cornmeal, which is too chunky for this batter), along with all-purpose flour, garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, cayenne pepper, and just a bit of salt—we want the batter to be well seasoned, but not overly salty since the pickles themselves are already quite salty. Once they're battered, into the hot oil they go until the cornmeal batter is browned and crispy.

The oil is at the relatively high temperature of 375°F—hot even by deep-frying standards. That's because the only real goal here is crisping and browning the coating, since the pickle slices themselves don't actually need to be cooked through. A lower temperature and longer frying time would just drag the process out, possibly sacrificing some of the pickle's juicy bite. 

Life Is Better With Bacon-Ranch Dipping Sauce 

Fried pickles taste good on their own, but they're even better with a creamy dipping sauce. You can use store-bought or homemade plain ranch dressing or rémoulade, but if you're a bacon eater I strongly encourage you to try Julia's homemade bacon-ranch, which includes cooked bacon bits along with the bacon drippings for extra flavor. It also gets tartness from some of the brine from the jar of pickles, as well as a welcome dose of fresh flavor from dill and chives. It's also good with other fried foods, such as fried green tomatoes and fried chicken, on burgers, or pretty much anywhere else you'd use regular ranch.  

Now when I dream about fried pickles, this recipe is the vision that floats to the top of my mind, right after those long-ago ones on the Gulf. Come to think of it, these fried pickles would be damn delicious alongside this equally killer fried pickle–inspired dip. A person can dream.

For the Bacon-Ranch: In a large cast iron skillet set over medium heat, cook bacon, stirring occasionally, until crisp, 4 to 6 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer bacon to a paper towel–lined plate; reserve drippings.

In a medium bowl, stir together mayonnaise, sour cream, pickle brine, dill, chives, garlic, and black pepper. Fold in cooked bacon and 1 1/2 teaspoons of reserved drippings. Cover and refrigerate until ready to use. Wipe skillet clean.

Arrange drained pickle slices on a large paper towel–lined plate; pat dry. In a wide, shallow bowl, combine buttermilk and black pepper. Add pickles, stirring to evenly coat with buttermilk mixture.

Line a 13- by 18-inch rimmed baking sheet with parchment or wax paper; set aside. In another wide, shallow bowl, whisk cornmeal, flour, garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, cayenne, and salt to combine. Working with several pickle slices at a time, toss to evenly coat pickle slices with cornmeal mixture. Place dredged pickles on prepared lined baking sheet.

Line another 13- by 18-inch rimmed baking sheet with paper towels; set aside. Fill the same cast iron skillet with 3/4-inch of oil and heat over medium-high until oil registers 375ºF (190ºC) on an instant-read thermometer. Working in batches of about 8, carefully add pickles, sliding them in from as close to the oil’s surface as possible to minimize splashing. Fry pickles, using a spider skimmer or slotted spoon to turn them occasionally, until golden brown and crisp about 1 1/2 minutes. Transfer to prepared baking sheet. Season with salt and serve with bacon ranch.

Special Equipment

Large cast iron skillet, two 13- by 18-inch rimmed baking sheets, instant-read thermometer, spider skimmer or slotted spoon

Notes

If your preferred brand of pickles isn't sold in slices, you can slice whole pickles into 1/4-inch-thick rounds. 

Make-Ahead and Storage 

Bacon-ranch can be prepared up to 1 week ahead and stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator. 

Pickles can be breaded and frozen for up to 3 months: Prepare through step 4, and after breading and arranging on a parchment- or wax paper–lined baking sheet, freeze until firm, then transfer to a zip-top bag or airtight container. Cook from frozen according to the recipe directions, adding up to 2 minutes if necessary. 

Fried pickles are best eaten immediately but leftovers may be stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 4 days. To reheat in an air fryer: Place on air fryer rack and reheat at 350ºF (175ºC) until warmed through. To reheat in the oven: Adjust oven rack to middle position and preheat oven to 375ºF (190ºC). Place fried pickles on a wire rack set inside a rimmed baking sheet and reheat until warmed through, about 6 minutes.

Carrots are an incredibly adaptable vegetable. In the colder months I love them roasted until carmelized and sweet or cooked on the stovetop and bathed in a buttery glaze. But once spring hits, I like to embrace their crunch and eat them raw, with recipes like this fresh carrot and raisin salad developed by our Birmingham-based test kitchen colleague Elizabeth Mervosh. In this salad, grated carrots and plump raisins are tossed with a creamy mayonnaise-based dressing, which gets a refreshing acidity from vinegar, orange juice, and lemon juice. The salad is topped with crunchy pistachios right before serving. Each bite is bursting with fruity, tart, sweet, and savory flavors. 

This slightly sweet vegetable side dish is just as great served at casual cookouts as it is at a formal Easter brunch. It takes only a few minutes to prepare and there’s no need to even turn on your oven. Here are a few tips to perfect it.

3 Simple Techniques for the Perfect Carrot and Raisin Salad

1. Shred the carrots for the best salad. For a salad with just the right amount of crunch, Elizabeth recommends shredding the carrots. She found in testing that carrots cut other ways just didn’t work as well: Grated carrots were too mealy and were lost in the dressing, carrot ribbons were too slippery, and sliced raw carrots were too hard to bite through. Shredding the carrots is best for a pleasantly crunchy salad. While you can do this on the holes of a box grater, butto prevent sore muscles and scratched knuckles, we recommend shredding the carrot with the disc attachment of a food processor. 

2. Take a few minutes to plump the raisins. Raisins in this salad add a welcome pop of sweetness. But to make them even better, we found that microwaving them with a simple dressing of orange juice, vinegar, and honey plumps the raisins to produce a more tender texture, and letting the raisins marinate briefly in the warmed juice mixture infuses them with bright citrus flavor. Once the raisins are drained, we don't let that flavorful juice mixture go to waste—it’s whisked with lemon juice, more honey, and mayonnaise to complete the dressing.

3. Serve the salad immediately. Once the carrots, raisins, and pistachios are tossed with the dressing, we recommend serving the salad immediately. The salt in the dressing will begin to leach moisture from the carrots over time, creating a soupy salad with a wet puddle at the bottom. If a puddle does form before serving, just drain off some of the excess moisture or toss the salad again to redistribute the liquid right before serving.

On the large holes of a box grater, shred carrots. Alternatively, carrots can be shredded with disk attachment of a food processor. You should have about 3 1/2 cups shredded carrots.

In a small microwave-safe bowl, whisk together orange juice, vinegar, and 1 teaspoon honey until combined and honey dissolves; add raisins and toss to coat. Microwave on high until orange juice mixture is hot and bubbling, about 45 seconds. Let sit, stirring every 5 minutes, until raisins are plump and softened, about 15 minutes.

In a fine-mesh strainer set over a medium bowl, drain raisins, reserving the orange juice mixture in the medium bowl; set raisins aside. Whisk mayonnaise, lemon juice, salt, and remaining 2 teaspoons honey into the reserved orange juice mixture.

Add carrots, plumped raisins, and pistachios, and toss to coat. Serve immediately. 

Special Equipment

Microwave-safe small bowl, box grater or food processor with shredding disk attachment

Make-Ahead and Storage

The carrots can be shredded and refrigerated in an airtight container up to 2 days before making the salad.

We strongly suggest tossing the salad right before serving, but leftovers can be refrigerated in an airtight container for up to 2 days. Note that the salad will become more watery as it sits, and you may need to drain excess liquid before serving.

My in-laws kindly gave me a Lodge Dutch oven when I graduated from college, and at the time, I had no idea what to do with it. Oh, how naive I was. Since then, I’ve thankfully discovered the many wonderful feats a Dutch oven can accomplish, like slow-cooking barbecue beans or baking crusty bread. After owning and loving my Lodge Dutch oven for over ten years, I can confidently say that it’s an essential—no, critical—part of my kitchen. Do I daydream about one day buying a Le Creuset? Sure. But am I happy with this Lodge workhorse that’s been our budget pick for years? Absolutely, especially since it costs hundreds less. In fact, it’s even cheaper now that it’s on sale for just $80.

The Takeaways

It Excels at Searing, Braising, and Baking 

I know people with much more expensive Dutch ovens, and there isn’t a single thing theirs can do that my Lodge Dutch oven can’t. It’s been my partner in crime through several Thanksgiving feasts, having baked tons of vegan stuffing and simmered butternut squash soup. Its enameled cast iron heats well and can sear a thick cut of cauliflower to ideal crispiness.

It Can Handle Very High Heat

The Lodge Dutch oven especially shines when it comes to baking sourdough bread. It’s churned out hundreds of loaves in three different kitchens throughout my time with it. Every loaf comes out crispy, golden, and with plenty of oven spring (pending a successful bulk fermentation, of course). Since baking sourdough requires a blast of intense heat at the start, this piece of cookware has seen oven temperatures up to 505°F without any signs of wear.

It’s Comfortable to Use

The wide handles have an exceptionally lovely curve to them, making it easy to carry the Lodge around my kitchen. I never have to worry about my grip on the Dutch oven because I’m able to grasp it firmly, even if I’m wearing bulky oven mitts. Its curved sides set it apart from other Dutch ovens for me. The gently sloped walls promote smooth stirring for saucing pasta and evenly dispersing ingredients in stews.

It Lasts for Ages (If Treated Nicely)

In our tests, the Lodge’s enamel did exhibit chipping when we knocked on its rim with a wooden spoon. However, in my 10-plus years of using it, my Lodge hasn’t chipped or scratched even once. Whenever it builds up staining from a particularly enthusiastic cooking project, I’m able to clear any brown spots with a scouring pad, regular dish soap, and warm water. While it may not be a Dutch oven to knock around the kitchen, it’ll last a long time if you maintain it with proper care.

Do I Recommend It?

After using the Lodge Dutch oven for over a decade, I can confidently say that this is the best Dutch oven you could get your hands on for under $100. It cooks thoroughly, has a pleasing design, and will last a long time if treated well. It’s a do-it-all piece of cookware that’s been our top budget pick for years, thanks to its impressive performance for the price. Speaking of price, it’s even cheaper now that it’s 40% off, making it a reasonable $80.

Lodge 6-Quart Enamel Cast Iron Dutch Oven

Why We’re the Experts

• An Uong is a writer for Serious Eats.
• An has been testing kitchen equipment for Serious Eats for two years.
• She’s a self-professed Lodge fan girl with an ever-growing collection of Lodge cast iron cookware.
  

The low ceiling of my London flat was filled with festive smoke. Saffron, cardamom, and cloves slowly infused in sugar syrup while I cooked roasted vermicelli with ghee in another pan for the seviyan dessert. I hadn’t cooked like this in years, and my small London flat’s smoke alarm was close to activation.

It was my first Eid away from my family, and partly, it felt liberating. Growing up in Pakistan, I had grown tired of familial expectations, especially around the Eid holidays. I moved to London when I was thirty-three, before later moving to Scotland, and I was looking for a chance at a new life. I was relieved to get away from small talk over samosas and chai with relatives and chewing politely behind a saccharine smile. I accepted that Eid would be lonely living in the U.K. and that suited me just fine.

There were some moments I knew I’d miss, like waking up to the warm scents of cardamom and roasted vermicelli. Each Eid morning, Mummy made my Dadi (paternal grandmother) her Qawami seviyan (pictured above), which included sixteen parts sugar to one part fine roasted vermicelli, along with cloves, saffron, and cardamom. This was an indulgent Eid breakfast in our home that I looked forward to, but that delight was often dulled by my mother’s narration of the day's visits to family members. It was the judgment from relatives that I hated most—those sideways glances and hushed tones about my divorce, or the eyebrow raises at my tattooed arms peeping through my kurta sleeve.

The month of Ramadan itself felt unceremonious in England. I missed the shorter working days Ramadan brought with it in Pakistan. On the way home from work when I was in Pakistan, we’d pick up fried snacks to break the fast with at iftar. Every street corner would be lined with stalls selling chickpea battered deep-fried pakoras, and saffron syrup-dipped donuts called jalebis just before sunset. Around the end of Ramadan, my mother would buy boxes full of groceries to give to families in need for Eid. Thinking of shopping with my cousins on Chand Raat (the night before Eid), and the organized chaos of the bazaars where we’d stain our hands with henna patterns and buy coloured glass bangles to match our new Eid outfits filled me with nostalgia.

In England, there was none of that. I’d convinced myself to try and conform with my new surroundings and didn’t tell anyone I was fasting. I had to work as usual through Ramadan and my hunger would peak at midday when my colleagues consumed sandwiches and salads at their desks in our open-plan office. One day at lunchtime, I decided to join them in the office cafeteria so I could get to know people. Alice, my boss, asked why I wasn’t eating, and I told her about Ramadan and Eid. I shared stories of my mother’s cooking and the all-encompassing scents of saffron and cardamom that always wafted through our kitchen, the itchy Eid clothes I’d wear, the clinking glass bangles that graced my arms, and the henna on my palms. I also told her about the aunties and uncles with their judgment and gossip. Before I knew it, my stories of warmer places and delicious food led Alice to invite herself over alongside my friends for Eid.

For years, Mummy had picked on me for not learning Eid recipes, and now I wished so much that I’d paid attention. With the help of long phone calls with my mother, I found myself immersed in curating the perfect Eid menu to impress my boss. Mummy gave me vague lists of ingredients, and I attempted to convert her confusing instructions into actual measurements and methods. Finally, I decided to make Sindhi biryani, a layered rice dish with pomegranate and dried plums with mutton or beef, and haleem, a lentil and meat porridge with garam masala, as well as fresh homemade naans; for dessert, I opted for my Dadi’s seviyan and rasmalai, sweet cottage cheese dumplings in milk.

My local South Asian store had most ingredients for the biryani like aloo bukhara (dried plum) and anardana (dried pomegranate), as well as the roasted fine vermicelli for seviyan. Mutton for the biryani, however, proved more problematic, so I resorted to using beef. I decided to attempt my mother’s dahi baras as well—these comforting chickpea flour dumplings with cool yogurt, tamarind, and mint chutneys were always on the Eid table. As I walked through the aisles of the store, the familiar spice labels and the shelves filled with Pakistani rice and atta flour filled me with an ache for home. I longed for my mother’s cooking; I even missed her voice that berated me to learn to cook.

As I prepared for the Eid lunch that day, heating whole spices in ghee, something about the cocktail of korma spices for my biryani evoked my lost anticipation for Eid. I didn’t feel alone in the kitchen; it was as if both my grandmother’s ghosts were at my side, telling me when to stir or add ingredients. The voices of the women from my family who prepared this same meal in the past felt present there that day, even though this tiny London loft kitchen was so far removed from my family kitchen in Karachi. There was something about the act of cooking Eid lunch that created a sense of home and a rekindling of happier memories.

I was transported to a time when Eid meant more than just the judging aunties and boring conversations. I remembered what my Nani (maternal grandmother) had always called “vintage Eid.” Each year, her elder brother, Iqbal, hosted a large Eid dinner at his beautiful home in Karachi. Uncle Iqbal had been in the foreign service and was posted in Washington, DC for many years; when he returned, he'd built a home reminiscent of American homes with mantel places and large windows—it was very unlike the homes in Pakistan, so I found it fascinating. Best of all, he brought back American sweets to give to the children on Eid: Twinkies, M&M’s, and Fruit Roll-Ups, all of which were impossible to find in Pakistan.

I also looked forward to the envelopes of Eidee money we’d receive from all the relatives, a tradition on Eid for young children. All the female family members, including my grandmothers and my mother, would sit in the vintage-style drawing room with floral wallpaper, rosewood carved furniture, and a large piano that was always left unplayed, and the men would be in the cigar room. The faint smell of spices and the charcoal from the barbeque in the back open-air kitchen would mingle with the honeyed cigar smoke. The uncles in their three-piece suits would greet each other with formal hugs and the aunties in their shiny, mismatched shalwar kameez outfits would kiss me, leaving their lipstick stains on my cheek.

I’d bear it all for the sweets, the money, and the lavish Eid lunch that Uncle Iqbal’s cook created; this was what everyone came together for after all. Lunch would be served in the airy dining room that had a slight musty old wood smell. The heavy mahogany dining table in the middle of the room was packed with so many dishes that you could barely see its surface. The beige lace curtains in the French windows always looked dusty and the silver candelabra lay on the side credenza was blackened with diskeep. I could hear a faint string quartet playing, but I never spotted speakers anywhere.

Everyone would rush to the table, crowding around the dishes like moths. There were freshly made shish kebabs and naans from the tandoor, haleem, raita, and nihari, a slow-cooked meat stew flavored with spices, along with condiments like finely slivered ginger, coriander, mint, and browned onions; a platter of mutton biryani served as the centerpiece of the table. Dessert would be served an hour later: rasmalai, seviyan, and pistachio kulfi ice cream. Luckily for me, children would get first dibs at dessert. We’d eat about four helpings and come home in the early afternoon, only to fall into a deep food coma.

As I prepared my Eid meal in London, I felt something shift. I’d spent so long focusing on the negative memories of Eid and blocking out the happier ones—family and the festive chatter that filled the walls of our homes with joy. I forgot the aunties and their remarks and instead, remembered my grandmothers, the candy, kulfi, the packs of Eidee, and all of us together at Uncle Iqbal’s home. Now, I’d brought together new friends in a new home around a meal that represented my traditions. Alice was left in awe of the flavors of Pakistani food. 

As I served my grandmother’s seviyan to my coworkers, I sent a photo of it to my mother, who was impressed at how much it looked like hers. It even tasted the same—maybe because I put in just the same amount of love and commitment in cooking as my grandmothers and mother did. I felt proud of this inescapable part of who I was—my culinary culture and my family recipes, something that I could recreate and share wherever I was. That year I reconnected with Eid and celebrated the festival’s true essence of gratitude, tradition, and making memories.