On Canning

I just read an intriguing post from I'm Not Rosie over at The Absence of Alternatives, all about bacon vodka. The photos of the bacon marinating in glass jars puts me in mind of something from the annals of exceptional relatives, circa 1975.

It is a hot September afternoon. Four children sit on the front steps of a modest aqua-coloured suburban bungalow, contemplating the murder of many caterpillars, when a Canada Post truck pulls up. (Except they didn't call it Canada Post back then, it was something like "Earl's Very Reliable Caribou Express.") (Moving on. . . . )

The nice postman lugs two heavy boxes sent from my aunt in a faraway province. This lovely woman may or may not like to hit the sauce every once in a while. It depends who you ask. If you ask the people who live in her town, they'll bounce their heads up and down rapidly, indicating a strong affirmative. If you ask my mother, she'll knit her brows and waggle a finger. "Don't be vulgar," you will be warned sternly. Later, you will grow to realize that "vulgar" here is another way of saying "we do not utter such truths in front of the neighbors."

At any rate, Gem jars of plums, beans, dills emerge gleaming from the first box. Lovely. Mother coos. Can't wait. Yay. Wonderful relatives. Nice, nice Aunty.

But the best part about these particular jars of home canning products--and what distinguishes them from, for example, the jars in the second box--is this: among them there is no chicken face shoved up against the glass, one eye open, one eye shut, beak sort of broken in places, chipped, actually, from the part where Aunt has jammed the entire bird, possibly still living, into a jar, poured hot brine over it, and slapped a lid on it.

Bring on the bacon martini, 35 years too late.

The Annals of Exceptional Parenting, Part CVMXIVLVII

Kid and I picnic at his schoolyard at lunchtime. When I tell people this, they always go "Awwww. He must love that. How lovely for the both of you." And I can see in their eyes a new appreciation of the reassuring depths of my parental stability, far-sightedness and capacity for fun.

When in reality it's because there are no clean plates at home and if we're going to eat on the floor anyhow, might as well be outside.

Cleaning tips

Nippon Style makes some very lovely things. But that's beside the point. The point is, really: It might just be worth $13000 for a sink that was ALREADY the colors that your average white sink turns into by the end of every day.

I wonder if they do flooring and wall paper. . . .

Just Keep Walking

Me: What the heck are you doing in there? You've been in the bathroom for 25 minutes.

Kid: I'm learning to drive.

Saskatchewan

My paternal grandmother raised 7 boys and a girl in 1930s Saskatchewan. A widow, she kept mean geese, a kind dog and an army of hunting cats. She also made pickles. Dill pickles. Holy Mother of God dill pickles.

We shall never see their like again.

Primarily because they were a total pain in the ass to make. It's a wonder anyone got fed, or watered, or that the chickens were plucked, the pigs slaughtered, the well water drawn, etc., with all the work that went into making those pickles.

My brother-in-law Charles, goddess of pickles, has this amazing recipe/technique that works every time, takes almost no time, and leaves one feeling tingly with achievement.

If you want it, email me.



And believe me, you want it.

I Heart Wexford Jewelers

Oh, Wexford Jewelers, thank you. I might have to go break a couple more fingers, if I get to adorn them with such sparklies.

Well, THAT didn't work

1/2 cup left over white rice from last night's dinner, still in the pot on the stove because you were too lazy to clean it up before bed

1 sugar cube

the very last dribble of coffee cream

sprinkle of cinnamon

Heat at inappropriately high setting for two minutes longer than you really ought to have

Serves one unhappy housewife/writer/fashion disaster/unreliable nutritionist