Two people in as many days have asked me for this recipe. But I can’t take any credit for it. The credit belongs entirely to this Hungry Tigress.

You see, pickles intimidate me a little — even simple (not that these are simple) refrigerator pickles. I love them so dearly, yet want to tinker with recipes so badly, that my pickle experimentations usually end up utter flops. There is a right way with pickles, and for me that usually means actually following the recipe.

So that’s what I’d suggest you do. Follow the recipe. The carrot fire pickles won’t let you down. And if your world is still covered in a slippery layer of ice — like the one that slid off my roof yesterday afternoon — the zippy-hot zing of mustard in these pickles will warm you right up.

Go on, do it.

1/4 cup dill and 12 ounces halved red grape tomatoes

Just wanted to pop in here to point out that it was still technically summer, despite the cloudy mood Ms. Nature seems to be in, and despite the fact that for three nights in a row I was required to haul out the down comforter before bed. (But is there anything better than sleeping under a thick comforter while a cool breeze blows in through the window? Not much. Not in my book.)

See them floating innocently there? Little do they know what I will do with them.

If the tomato vines in your garden look anything like the ones at my CSA, you might be concerned that tomato season is coming to an end. In the spirit of saving the summer and converting some ho-hum grape tomatoes into something a little more fun, I present to you this recipe for quick-pickled tomatoes. I should say, though, that it wasn’t exactly my idea, but was instead spurred on by a fantastic tasting pickled tomato I sampled at a friend’s house before heading out to pick up my farm share. My friend mentioned that she’d been using the pickled tomatoes in martinis, and I imagined her and her husband lounging on their front porch, feet up, sun streaming in, cool mountain breezes blowing by, chilled martini glasses dangling effortlessly in their hands.

Let me tell you, it sounded appealing.

A nice gin to use for your martini would be Berkshire Mountain Distillers’ Ethereal—it’s good, and I’m not a gin person.

These easy pickled tomatoes, then, are my last plea to summer. This weekend’s weather will be warm, and I’ll sit in the yard and soak it up, martini glass in hand, pickled tomato infusing its dilly goodness into the drink. Care to join me?

When she approached our table on Saturday night, the waitress at the Remington Lodge regarded with raised eyebrows the completely empty pickle plate we left in the center of the table.

“Well, you sure did like those pickles,” she observed. “Would you like some more?” Like those pickles? Like them? I wanted to carry them off into the sunset, whisper sweet nothing in their ears, and marry them.

(Yes, pickles have ears.)

Reader, it took nearly all the willpower I could summon to say no. I had to leave room for biscuits, stew, and pie, afterall. Stupid me, I forgot to ask what, exactly, each pickle was, but I’ll try to describe them here anyway. There was a zingy carrot slice pickle, touched with sesame oil and sprinkled with toasted white sesame seeds; there was a spicy, crisp cabbage kimchee-like pickle (but it seemed less fermented, or more fresh, or something); there was a sweet and aromatic beet pickle; and somewhere in that mix were slivers of pickled jalepeño. It was heavenly. Dan and I nearly fought over who would get to lick the pickle juice from the plate. (In the end, we decided to refrain.)

The rest of dinner was a warm, savory compliment to those bright, piquant pickles: homemade buttermilk biscuits with homemade butter made from Sidehill Farm milk; a delicately dressed salad of young greens (also from Sidehill) tossed with bits of cashew; and a rich and almost imperceptibly sweet pork stew with chestnuts, made with pork from Holiday Farm in Dalton.

Yes, a pork stew. I even ate some of it. It was delicious.

For dessert, there was homemade apple pie with vanilla ice cream — the apples were soft and almost totally unstructured, with a delicate pinkish tint, and the crust was crisp and sweet. It was perfectly suited to a big mug of hot coffee and cream.

All this for a totally reasonable twenty-five bucks, plus it’s BYO. I love the Remington Lodge, but I really, really love those pickles.

Here’s a newbie gardener mistake to which I’ll admit, guiltily: haphazard planting. It’s true — I planted some vegetables without really thinking it through. You see, one side of the garden was looking woefully empty — we were reserving it for the large, warm-weather crops like tomato, zucchini, and cucumber — and I thought I might as well just stick something there for the interim. I had some three year-old mustard seeds. What I didn’t have was the foresight to imagine what would come of 50 mustard seeds and a long, cool, rainy spring.

We are up to our ears in mustard.

The other day, I was Googling desperately for a solution to our problem of overabundance, and came across a fantastically simple recipe for pickled mustard greens from Saveur magazine. Mustard greens have an assertive, spicy flavor that can take a lot of abuse — in this case, an extended bath in vinegar. This bright, pungent concoction would work really well as a condiment served alongside a rich stir-fry or rice bowl.

Pickled Mustard Greens

From Saveur

2 tbsp. sugar
1 tbsp. salt
1⁄4 c white vinegar
1⁄2 lb. Asian mustard greens
3 red or green serrano chiles, split lengthwise

1. In a small saucepan, combine 2 cups water, sugar, salt, and vinegar. Bring to a boil over high heat, then remove from heat. Cool slightly.

2. Using a paring knife, trim stems of washed mustard greens from leaves. Cut stems into 2″ pieces and place in a 1-quart measuring cup. Coarsely chop enough greens to fill the measuring cup when added to stems and packed down gently.

3. Pack stems, leaves, and chiles into a clean glass 1-quart jar. Pour hot liquid onto greens, making sure that the stems are completely submerged. Cover and refrigerate for at least 3 days before serving.

Makes 1 quart