To outsiders, my multimillion-dollar artisanal pickle company may look like an overnight success, but I can assure you it was the result of a lot of hard work. Yes, my father is the number-one producer of pickles worldwide, but please don’t be so crass as to suggest that my success has anything to do with his. I make sweet pickles, not dill—it’s an entirely different industry.
I’ve always had a passion for pickles: eating them, having my personal chef cook exclusively with them when I’m on a pickle cleanse, chucking them at mouthy butlers. But it wasn’t until I was drowning my sorrows in a jar of bread and butters after my dog therapy business went under that I thought of starting my own brand.
My best friend Bitsy took one look at the empty jars around me and said, “Mitsy, you love pickles so much. Why don’t you just make your own? Your dad controls the Big Dill lobby, and your mom has a monopoly on jar manufacturing.” Bitsy always has the best ideas—except for the one about opening a dog therapy business.


