From Superstitious to Sentimental - Cream Cheese Chocolate Chip Cookies

I freely admit that I am sentimental to the point of occasional stupidity.  Which is why I have So Much Stuff that I can't bear to get rid of, like the pink pan in this photo.  It was my grandmother's and always sat on her stovetop for boiling water. (I hope that someday Cory feels the same about the white and blue Corning Ware kettle sitting there.)   I'm sure I could get a guest shot on "Hoarders", but I would end up having to call my friend Donna to represent me on charges of assault, battery, and maybe worse, if anybody from the show tried to discard My Stuff.

That's how The Rabbi ended up on the wall, even though this painting was never part of My Stuff, and I don't particularly care for it.  Sentimentality is a slippery slope, my friends.  All it took was a piece of paper with Robert's name written on it in a slightly shaky, unfamiliar hand, taped to the back of the painting, and the sentimentality gene kicked in. So there he is, and there he'll stay.

Grandma Morris

With James' irreplaceable help, we got a whole lot more of our pictures hung up.  First, we hung The Grandmas.  The fact that I'm still shlepping them around and hanging them with reverence is just more of that sentimentality jazz.

Grandma Albert

I come by the sentimentality thing (and the superstitious thing) honestly. I was raised by my grandparents, both of whom were, in their own ways, deeply spiritual people, and this belief in Something Else Out There was the source of a lot of their funny ways.  Both were firmly convinced that red was a lucky color, and a red ribbon would ward off evil spirits. A bittersweet story - Pop had been fighting colon and abdominal cancer for 16 months when he had to be admitted to the hospital yet again.  He was there for a week, and then he passed away in his blessedly drug-induced sleep. When I went to pack up his belongings, I found the outfit he had worn to go to the hospital.  Everything, with the exception of his underclothes, was some shade of red. Now it was certainly true that the red clothes did not ward off the evil spirit, so that he could survive the cancer, but it did keep the kinehora at arm's length long enough for me to get down to Florida to see him and say goodbye.

Mom was the same way; she loved mystic stuff, tarot card readings, and was convinced she had some sort of paranormal abilities.  She believed in the power of the color red, was nuts about keeping hats off of beds, and was sentimental to a fault.  Between the two of them they were a mess, to tell you the truth, but they did manage to pull themselves together, sentimentally speaking, and commissioned the two portraits of their mothers, to be done from very old, very precious photos.  Their sentimentality brought them together when so many other things pulled them apart, and those portraits hung side by side in their home until Pop was gone, Mom had to be moved to assisted living, and their condo had to be dismantled for good.  Since then, I am the Keeper of the Grandmas, and have hung them faithfully in each of my homes.  Sentimental slob that I am, I always feel better when they are both glaring down at me.  I'm not sure anyone else shares my attachment, and I am pretty sure that when I'm gone, the portraits are going with me ... wherever.

In addition to the Rabbi and the Grandmas, James hung up a whole bunch of stuff for us, and I have to admit it's beginning to look a lot like home. And office. More office than home, at least this trip.

There was more, but you get the idea.  That's still my front door, and I like walking in through it.  Thank you James, as always, great job.

Serious stuff: Yesterday, a jury in Colorado sentenced the Aurora Theatre killer to life without possibility of parole.  I know that a number of people, including victims' family members, are disappointed, but, for what it is worth, in my opinion, it is the correct sentence.  Somewhere along the line, while I was revising my personal opinion on abortion, my opinion regarding capital punishment changed as well. Not because I don't have a big streak of bloodthirsty in my make-up, but because I truly believe that we (we, the People, we, the innocent, we, the victims) are better than that.  (I also have a huge concern regarding improper convictions of innocent parties, but that doesn't apply here). We do not have to kill to punish. We (should) value Life above all else.  Besides, taking a killer's sorry ass life can NEVER be sufficient repayment for what that killer has taken from the victims and their families.  Life in prison without parole is a pretty stiff sentence.  Perhaps it is not enough, but it is the strongest we can impose. And that's my opinion.

The past two days, I've given you recipes for cookies, including The Very Best Butter Cookie.  Let me say, for the record, that if I could bake - and eat - only one cookie for the rest of my life, it would be this butter cookie. But if I was granted the boon of baking the same two cookie recipes for the next 30 or so years, until God calls me home to Brooklyn - you didn't think I was going to Heaven, did you? - my second choice would be this Cream Cheese Chocolate Chip Cookie.

Sidebar - Rob is watching "Sharknado III" and all hell has broken out at Universal Studios Orlando. Since I pass Universal every time I drive to my therapist's office, this is bound to give me nightmares once a week, every week.  This movie is so bad it's good in a really sick way.  In the meantime, I'm dancing around in my kitchen while listening to Jefferson Starship.  Should be giving my neighbor an eyeful.  Enjoy it, honey, usually you're watching me throw up.

Back to the cookies - they are so good, your tongue will slap your brains out (I've been living down south much too long).  I ate two right out of the oven - anorexia, my ass.  These came out so good, I surprised myself.  For some reason I made them by hand.  Oh hell, I was just too lazy to dig out the stand mixer or wash the beaters from the hand mixer.  So I did the whole thing by hand, wooden spoon, and rubber spatula.  Three batches, fast and easy thanks to the aluminum foil trick I learned from Maida Heatter 40 years ago.  You know how I am about aluminum.

I can't take credit for the recipe, and don't scream when you see the list of ingredients which is mercifully short.  All you need to know is that it works like a dream.

Cream Cheese Chocolate Chip Cookies

1/2 stick butter, softened to room temperature

1-8 oz. bar Philadelphia cream cheese, softened to room temperature 

1 extra large egg

1/2 teaspoon real vanilla extract

1-18 oz. package yellow cake mix

1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

1 cup milk chocolate chips

Cream together the butter and cream cheese until smooth and lump-free.  Blend in the egg and vanilla. Add the dry cake mix, one-third at a time, mixing well after each addition.  Mix in the chocolate chips. Cover the dough and chill for at least 30 minutes.

You will need 3 pieces of aluminum foil large enough to cover your cookie sheet.  With a medium sized scoop, portion out 12 to 14 cookies for the first sheet of foil and slide the cookie sheet underneath it. Bake in a preheated 375 degree oven for 11 to 12 minutes.  While the first cookies are baking, portion out the remaining dough on the other 2 pieces of aluminum foil.

Remove the baked cookies from the oven and cool for 5 minutes on the baking sheet, no more.  Check the bottom of one cookie; it should be light/medium brown.  Remove the finished cookies to a cooling rack, and allow the cookie sheet for a few minutes before sliding it under the second piece of foil. Repeat the procedure until all 3 sheets have been baked.  With the medium scoop, I got 41 cookies.

Utter cookie perfection.  Thank you Betty Crocker.

Peace, Love, and TPR - Maple Oatmeal Macaroons

Happy day, and for you folks still doing the old 9 to 5, thank goodness it's Friday.  I've got cookies and cats and Pandora knock-offs and as always, a back story.

#spooniegotthestory

Oh, for CRYING OUT LOUD!  Anakin Skywalker, what's your boggle??? This cat, the Only Cat, actually backed  into the narrow space between the baking sheet and the cookies.  He never bothers the cookies, or touches them, or even sniffs at them.  He just poses for pictures with them.  Any ideas on how to keep him off the stove top?                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Incidentally, did anyone not watch the Republican debates last night? What did you all think about Carly Fiorina?

I am a superstitious lady, which flies in the face of my many years of scientific and legal training.  I am supposed to be logical, but I freely admit to belief in UFOs, astral projections, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, telekinetic movement, full trance mediums, the Loch Ness monster, and the theory of Atlantis. I believe in ghosts - hell, I live with some of them - and I also believe in the power of Jewish kinehora and Italian malocchio and Greek matiasma.  I always have a red ribbon attached somewhere inside my car. (The one time I did not get a red ribbon attached to one of our cars, we got hit by a deer.)  I never put a hat on my bed. I always hang mezuzot on the outside door frames of my house and office.  (Yes, I know that it is a Jewish commandment, but it's one I choose to follow because of my superstitious nature.  There are 613 commandments, and I've broken or ignored most of them, but not that one).  Like other superstitious people of any culture, I attach a good deal of significance to certain symbols which are said to keep away the evil eye, or ward off evil spirits.

The reason I bring this up is I suddenly and unexpectedly decided to pick one of my Highly Symbolic Bracelets to wear.  The last few years of daily working I was rigidly ritualistic about wearing one or more of my bracelets to the office and court. I was falling apart, slowly and gracefully at first, quick and dirty at the end, and I needed all the help I could get.

On the right wrist I always wore the Serenity Prayer bracelet that I found in Hobby Lobby of all places, and a two-tone three-heart bracelet which always represented my family to me. The left wrist has been for a rotating selection depending on my mood and circumstance.  And today I wanted to wear one, and that indicated to me that I might actually live through this.

For the first time in a very long time, I felt like I was worthy of protection.  I was practically giddy for about a minute. Felt good. #spooniehasntgottimeforthepain  (The little cylinder is worn around my neck and is especially precious to me, but that's another blog post, and there's another bracelet to the story).

Today I chose the all-red bracelet, my own personal kinehora bendel, designed to ward off evil spirits.  I designed it to have every lucky amulet I could get my hands on, and of course every bead is red (the little purple dog at the end symbolizes fibromyalgia, hiss boo.) So I had a pretty good day.  Pain, yes indeed, my back and legs are on fire, but I had ibuprofen and a comfortable chair to make it bearable. Maybe there really is hope, for days that are less painful, days when the dementors leave me alone.

The bracelet immediately above the red one is my favorite, and I wear it the most often.  It symbolizes my support for victims of HIV/AIDS, heart disease, child abuse, fibromyalgia, breast cancer, and lymphoma. I have my reasons.  And the one above that is ...well, can't you see it? It's my Orlando Magic bracelet!  I wear it whenever my team plays.  Do they win?  Nah, but I feel good for supporting them.

I haven't had to do any heavy cooking the past few days, which gave me time to bake a few batches of cookies. Yesterday was for the butter cookies, today was all about these cute little macaroons, and ... oh.  That black bracelet on top of the post?  That is a dual-purpose bracelet; I wore it whenever I was in a bad mood - and for every TPR (termination of parental rights) trial I prosecuted.  And I had a lot of them.  I was also in a bad mood a good deal of the time.  When those two coincided, I dressed in all black AND wore the bracelet, because I was in serious mourning for my sanity.

Back to the cookies - this is another ridiculously easy recipe.  No flour, no leavening agent, no beaters. You mix this up in a saucepan.

Maple Oatmeal Macaroons

1/2 stick butter
1/4 cup maple syrup
a dash of salt
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1 cup rolled oats
1/2 cup shredded coconut
1/2 cup dried currants
1 extra large egg, beaten with a fork

In a small saucepan, melt the butter.  Stir in the maple syrup, salt, and cinnamon.  Add the oats, coconut, and currants.  Take the saucepan off the heat and allow it to cool down.  Stir the beaten egg in to the oatmeal mixture.

Place a silpat on a cookie sheet and preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Drop small scoops of the dough onto the cookie sheet and bake for 15-20 minutes.  Cool the macaroons for about 5 minutes and then remove them to a rack to finish cooling.

This is one of those recipes when it is important to use real maple syrup.  Also, the currants really make the cookie.   If you can't find zante currants - difficult even during the Christmas cookie-baking season - you can use raisins, but the cookie is just not the same.  If you have access to a Whole Foods, you can find the currants in the bulk foods section.

When you're hot, you're hot - The Very Best Butter Cookies

No cats were harmed in the making of this blog post

And when you're not, you're still hot.  This is Florida, mind you.  Here in Central Florida, we have two seasons - summer and winter - and winter lasts for three weeks.  I have lived here for almost 24 years, and I do not own a winter coat. 

Heat tolerance is a relative thing, and it was my relative, Aunt Ceil, who explained it to me a very long time ago.  She told me that after two years, your body adjusts to the heat - she stated "your blood thins out" - and with that, you would be able to tolerate constant high temperatures.  Of course, as I have found to my sorrow, you also lose the ability to tolerate cold.  The coldest spot in Kissimmee is in front of the new courthouse in January, in other words, down the block from here. With the wind that gets caught in the space formed by both courthouses and the county administration building, we have a real wind chill factor.  Maybe 45 degrees. A New Yorker would laugh at me - heck, 30 years ago I would have laughed at myself - but once the temperature dips below 50, it starts to feel chilly.

So as we speak, it is only 81, or maybe it is 84 already, but still, good temperatures to be outside pulling weeds.

I know there are several people, who reading this, are shaking their heads and muttering, say what?  I was always hypersensitive to heat, and anything over 75 was uncomfortable.  When I was nine years old, spending my third summer at Camp Anawana, I passed out during a line-up.  Hit the deck.  Weird feeling, first time I remember ever having that happen.  It was blazing hot, the humidity was high, and it was all too much for that chubby little body.  I was embarrassed, but I got an ice pop out of the deal, so I got over it.

Around 1976, when I was a single girl with an apartment (!) and a strained budget, my father, may his memory be for a blessing, took pity on me during that terrible summer and gave me money so I could ride the express bus from Howard Beach to Manhattan.  I thought it was because of the wretched heat, which Pop knew destroyed me on a daily basis.  It was only later that it occurred to me his concern might also have something to do with 1976 being the Summer of Sam.  New York, I love this town!

We didn't have ghosts or Sumarian demi-gods, but we did have a serial killer, and he (David Berkowitz aka Son of Sam) had all of us in a tizzy. A well-founded tizzy.  True, he was targeting young couples, and I wasn't part of a couple, being between husbands, but I was a young and temporarily attractive female, and back then we didn't have "Criminal Minds" around to tell us that a serial killer stays true to his profile.  

Another time ... okay this is the last one ... this was also in the mid-seventies.  There I was, a native New Yorker who had never been to the Statue of Liberty.  My friends Mark and Sandy had invited me for a day of fun, checking out odd lines of the subway (Mark and I are both subway aficionados), on our way to the southern tip of Manhattan for the ferry ride to Liberty Island.  Halfway up the stairs, the heat and closeness of the structure got to me, and I started to hit the deck when Sandy caught me.  Between the two of them, they got me out of there and I started to feel better; fresh air and Moo Shu Pork did the rest.  I have fond memories of that day. Good times.

So I was saying that it is a good day to garden, except the golden moment passed, and now it's not.  Rob and I went out to do some necessary shopping, and by the time we got back things had changed somewhat.

Clearly, there was nothing else to do but bake cookies. Not just any cookie, mind you, but The Very Best Cookies In The World.  These are my mother-in-law's butter cookies.  I first tasted them when I was dating Rob, circa 1972 (oh yes), and continued to consume them in impressive quantities through our engagement and first marriage.  When Rob and I separated in 1975, I was devastated.  Besides feeling like my life was destroyed, I had never gotten that cookie recipe from my mother-in-law.  I tried to find a recipe that would come close, but to no avail.

Eventually, Robert and I came to our senses and remarried, and as a splendid bonus, I finally got that recipe.  It is not true that I remarried to get that recipe ... but it didn't hurt.  (Just kidding, sweetheart.)

Rob and I, his brothers, and all my ex-sisters-in-law call these Mom's Butter Cookies.  The cooking grandchildren, my nieces Mara and Adina, call them Grammie's Butter Cookies.  Simpler, then, to call them "The Very Best Butter Cookies In The World."  Because they are.

Cat on a Hot Glass Stove

So while I'm working on the cookies, I had a visitor.  He's black, he's white, he's short, and he's entirely too fond of the heat given off by the oven.

The recipe is easy, the list of ingredients short, but you must follow the instructions precisely to produce this ethereal treat.  Trust me.

Mom's Butter Cookies (aka The Very Best Butter Cookies in the World)

1/2 pound butter (not margarine or any other substitute. Real dairy butter or nothing.)

1/2 cup sugar
2 egg yolks
1/2 teaspoon vanilla (the real stuff)
3 cups sifted flour
strawberry jam, or apricot preserves

First and foremost: bite the bullet and sift the damn flour.  If you don't, if you believe that the flour is "presifted", you will end up with dry and heavy cookies. You have been warned.

Second and nextmost: yes, these are thumbprint cookies, but if like me you have acrylic fingernails, don't bother trying to use your thumb or any other digit.  Instead, haul out the hardware:

You're also going to need a stand mixer or hand mixer.  Cream the butter; add the sugar gradually and beat until fluffy.  Add the egg yolks and the vanilla, and beat everything together.

Now add the flour in 3 or 4 batches, mixing well to incorporate it.  If you have been using a hand mixer, you may need to incorporate the last batch of flour by hand.

No, seriously, BY HAND.  Time to play with your food.  Wash those hands and dive right in.

#spooniemeanswhatspooniesays

Place the cookie dough in the refrigerator for at least five minutes.  With a small scoop, make balls about one inch in diameter.  Roll them between your hands, and place them on an ungreased cookie sheet.  Make an indentation with your thumb, a tomato shark, or a round-bottomed 1/4 teaspoon measure, and then fill with the jam.  Bake in a 350 degree oven for 10-18 minutes. With a spatula, remove to a cooling rack.

You're welcome.

A Great Day for a Hanging - Chicken, Just Chicken

Winner, winner, easy peasy chicken dinner.

If you like to use a crockpot, you will like this method for preparing chicken. Not that it involves a crockpot, but it does stretch out the time you will use to cook the chicken.  Like the barbecue experts tell us, "low and slow", although this has nothing to do with smoke or barbecue.

Confused yet?  Hey, I'm confused all the time! Today was a tough one.  I was on the telephone with a Social Security advocate's office, and I must have sounded like an idiot (PC Alert! Yes, PC police, I know these terms - moron, idiot, and imbecile - are no longer used when discussing persons with learning disabilities, but I am talking about myself, and I have a frikking Literary License, so cut me some slack) because I could not string two words together or answer simple questions.  I am a mess, and getting messier.

I was able to work with James on the picture hanging project, although he had to do the math.  And the hanging.  My brain may be slightly scrambled, but my eye is still good when it comes to judging wall hangings. Well, my eye is good as long as I am wearing my super-duper stronger-than-dirt eyeglasses. (I am pretty sure that my eyesight is continuing to deteriorate at a rapid pace after having remained the same for 30 years, and then crashing 200 points in each eye.  Still heading to a place where they don't measure one's eyesight in numbers anymore.)      

       

Depression - deep, dark, blacker-than-night, paralyzing, enervating, debilitating - is a funny thing. It prevents you from moving forward on projects.  It prevents you from finishing even the most mundane tasks.  Like hanging pictures. And unpacking. We lived in the Flora Vista house for 11 years, and I never fully unpacked. Also didn't come close to hanging all the pictures.  I got stuck on stupid and stayed there for 11 years.  At least in the Ocita house, all the pictures got hung.  Never fully unpacked either, there's another 11 years. Yeah, I've been depressed a long time. You should have seen my basement in Ronkonkoma.

This house is a great deal smaller than any of those, but there is a pretty good amount of wall space, so the time is right for a hanging.  It's shaping up nicely, and as stressed and overwhelmed as I feel, it helps to see old familiar faces on my walls.  It is, of course, a work in progress, but I took some (really crappy) photos of what's gone up so far.

Back to the chicken - it is ridiculously easy, and with the low-and-slow method you can knit a sweater, or at least a scarf, while the chicken cooks.  You don't have to check on it, or baste it, or sauce it, or bother it in any way, shape, or form.  Seriously. Walk away. Read a book. Check your email. Well, at least for the first 2 hours. Then ... let me explain.

If you have access to a BJs, buy the chicken thighs there.  Don't bother to rinse the chicken; chicken-rinsing has fallen out of favor with the Salmonella Police, don't you know. I buy the chicken in pillow packs, 4 thighs to a pack, and they are as clean as any dead chicken is going to be.

Open up 2 packs, so you have a total of 8 thighs.  Leave the bone and skin intact. Tuck any excess skin around and under the thigh.  Pat the chicken dry, using paper towels. Throw the towels away. According to the Salmonella Police, the towels are toxic.  I know what you're thinking, you can figure out how to do it.

Mix the seasonings together:

2 tablespoons kosher salt
1 tablespoon coarsely ground pepper
1 tablespoon granulated garlic
1 teaspoon Raging River 5 Pepper Seasoning Blend
1 teaspoon dried chives
1/2 teaspoon sugar

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees. I used convection, which converted the temp to 275 degrees. Season the chicken generously on both sides and place in a baking pan skin side up.  Place in the oven and walk away for the next 2 hours. Read a book. Do some gardening. Or, as my cousin Maura would say, let Calgon take you away. Relax, the oven knows what it is doing.

At the end of 2 hours, carefully remove the pan of chicken to a level surface.  You see all that rendered fat?  Leave it alone.  With tongs, carefully turn each piece over.  Lightly re-season the exposed side with the seasoning mix and some sweet paprika, and return to the oven for another hour or more until the chicken is very tender.  Turn the oven temp to broil and crack the door open an inch or so.  Broil for 5 minutes.

Remove the pan from the oven, and turn the chicken skin side up.  With a paper towel, blot away the excess oil, then sprinkle with a little more seasoning mix and sweet paprika.  Broil until the skin is crispy, not more than 5 minutes.  Remove the chicken from the pan to a serving dish or another clean pan.  Discard the rendered fat.

The chicken is very tender from being cooked low and slow, essentially in its own fat, like a confit.  I highly recommend that you serve this with old-fashioned mashed potatoes, peeled Russets, boiled, hand-mashed, and enriched with hot half-and-half and a whole lotta butter.  You will love this dish.

The Cat's in the Cradle, and the Sink, and the Skillet, and the Pizza Box - Fried Pickle Spears

Deep sigh:  Oyyyyyyy ... These last few posts have been totally out of order.  I'm actually feeling a trifle better today, or maybe that's the ibuprofen working its magic.  Regardless, I am going to enjoy the moment. 

I am so excited about the Fox Republican Debate.  I'm not a Republican, and while we do watch Fox, there are times I get so aggravated at certain commentators I plug in my earphones and listen to Mandy Patinkin sing "Send in the Clowns."

Now - Can somebody explain to me what is going on with my cat?

Everything and the Kitchen Sink

My New Cast Iron Skillet

 
Al's Pizza, of course

He's turned into a container freak.

Me, I'm just a freak.  The latest "thing" is paranoia. I feel like I am being watched, spied upon, recorded. A car idling too long across the street, taking off when I happen to look out through the blinds. That gave me a very unpleasant feeling. I don't suppose it helped that earlier in the day, my iPhone popped up with a couple of wifi providers including "Surveillance Van."  No. really.  Not subtle enough to be for real, but it set my mind off.

I am still unable to walk into the courthouse or to my office.  I freeze at the thought.  Saturday will be five months since I was told to "go home and stay there until a doctor clears me to return to all of my duties. " That has never happened; neither of my doctors could sign off on something like that, now or anytime in the immediate future.  In the courtroom, publicly with no regard for my feelings or my illness, I was embarrassed, humiliated, and mortified. The self-esteem I had built up over decades crashed and burned in one afternoon.  I still can't get into details, nor would it be appropriate for me to vent.  The first sentence alone would include an enormous amount of profanity, with the word "bitch" being the mildest term there.

To say this is painful is an understatement.  But I am a patient woman, who believes that everything happens for a reason, what goes around comes around, and revenge is a dish best served cold.

Speaking of Dishes Best Serve Cold, this episode of Inspiration Nation is all about fried pickles.  Not those flimsy crosscut coins that every other restaurant seems to serve, but Fried Pickle Spears!  These are so good, you will be able to hold out until green tomatoes become available (I'm working on that - watch my garden grow). These are easy, but you will need a couple of ingredients you probably don't keep in stock.  Unlike me, who keeps some damn weird stuff in stock.

Fried pickles and fried green tomatoes are not foods I grew up eating.  Pickles are an important part of Jewish cuisine (walk into a New York Jewish deli and tell me what's on every table) and considered so perfect in and of itself  that breading and frying amounts to gilding the lily.

I never had a fried pickle until I moved down south, and even then it was not until I'd been here for years that my friend Tony mentioned them.  That boy is originally from Alabama, and I seriously trust his judgment on all things southern, so I was on the outlook for these things.  Found them at a couple of different restaurants and I was hooked, but I have to admit the best fried pickles we ever ate had him ordered at Uncle Bubba's Oyster House, just outside Savannah, Georgia.

Yes, Uncle Bubba. Paula Deen's brother. Get it out of your system now, and we'll move on to those pickles.

As I've explained before, I love Paula Deen.  I love her restaurant and I love her recipes. I'm going to guess that most of the recipes that her brother used and included in his cookbook had originally come from Paula.  I can read between the lines - Bubba has been a bit of an eff-up most of his adult life.  The recipes, the restaurant, that was all to help him.  Just my opinion.

Most restaurants, including Uncle Bubba's at its end of days, and the incomparable Jimmy Bear's BBQ in St. Cloud, fry crosscut pickle chips.  Just all right, in my opinion. The spears are best, and this is my recipe, and it is good.

Fried Pickle Spears

1 - 24 oz. jar kosher dill spears (I used Vlasic brand)

buttermilk
hot sauce, any kind (I used Sriracha; Crystal, Uncle Pete's, Tabasco are all good)

Night before the Big Fry:  Pour off all of the pickle juice.  Refill the jar with buttermilk and as much hot sauce as you can bear.  Cover and refrigerate overnight.

1 - 8.5 oz. box Jiffy corn muffin mix
1/2 cup rice flour
black pepper, granulated garlic
1 pound Goya lard (yes, lard)

Combine the corn muffin mix and rice flour in a wire strainer with pepper and granulated garlic to taste and sift together into any pan or dish with raised sides. (You know I used an aluminum baking pan.)  Do not skip this step.

Heat the lard in a deep skillet over medium-high heat (that's 7.5 on my modern stove).  Remove the pickles from the buttermilk bath and roll them in the coating mix.  Fry them, in batches, until they are evenly brown (GBD = Golden Brown and Delicious) on both sides.  Drain on paper towels  Serve hot with ranch dressing (meh) or whatever you like to dip fried things into.

Like my Awesome Sauce Sauce.  You can find the recipe here.