Rebel Canning?!

Drama in the canning community? This sounds serious. Especially now that it’s coming home to roost.

Or is that roast?

Yes, now that Hubby has enthusiastically taken up canning, there’s trouble brewing in Kensho paradise.

It’s not only that he dominates our small kitchen for hours on end, heats up the house with his fancy pressure canner, or is filling every conceivable space with his jars. It’s not even that’s he’s far better at it than I ever was.

No, I’m generous that way, perfectly willing to share in the glory.

I am, however, growing weary of his methodology. His modern, high-tech, USDA, strictly by the book, precision style is beginning to conflict with my laissez-faire, look how the old timers did it, just wing it attitude.

I suggested we try the ‘Open Kettle Method’, which for the record is taken directly from my 1933 Kerr Home Canning Guide.

He quips, “No way, it’s not approved.”

Huh?

And I’ve just learned we’re not alone in this clash. There’s some fiery online debate—wouldn’t you know it—as in politics, so in the kitchen.

They call themselves the ‘Rebel Canners’ and that’s got me quite intrigued. Those rascals are daring to question The Official Science! They must all have a death wish. Clearly they have they never heard of botulism.

It was no sooner than Hubby and I had a tiff over water bath timing that a YouTube video hit the top of my feeds.

How did they know?

A rebel canner, in the flesh.

She doesn’t look nearly as crazy as I thought she would. She brings up the Amish, who never pressure can.

Never! Not even for meat.

It’s positively scandalous.

Hubby tries to block out the insanity coming from the speakers. I tell him I want to try it. Meat, my dear, imagine, meat water bath canned!

Let’s go for it!

He looks at me with the same look as when I try a new foraged mushroom without proper identification. And I know just what that look means.

I can repeat the sentence for him, I’ve heard it so often.

“You go ahead, sweetie, someone has to live to tell the story.”

PC-Free Friday!

In this shit show, vaudeville act, fantasy-based reality, LARP, mass formation, post-modern reality simulation, totalitarian tiptoe, or whatever you want to call it, humor is the best medicine.

In fact, these days, it may be the only safe medicine.

So here’s an attempt to get us started!

One funny song:

One funny question:

If you had to choose between losing a war with the Russians or the Chinese, which would you choose?

I’ll start! To me, this is not a political question, but a cultural one. The politics in every country are equally shitty, I’d choose none of them. But, culturally speaking, the Slavs won a long time ago in my book. They’re my kind of folk! In fact, I’m pretty sure I was a Russian Jew in a past life. I even passed for one once in Slovakia, but that’s another story.

One funny meme:

One funny oldie-but-goodie, from the simpler days of 2015:

https://www.corbettreport.com/episode-302-how-to-free-your-tax-cattle/

Funny Friday

Still no time between harvesting, milking, and processing, but there’s always time for a little laugh!

(Huge thanks to all the inspiring creators, keeping it real, and all those sharing them—no time to list y’all—but I REALLY appreciate every one of ya and I share because I care!)

Q: What’s the difference between a conspiracy theory and a conspiracy fact?

A: About six months.

*******

How many times have you heard the word LOVE today? Now multiply that by the number of days you’ve been alive. Count all the songs and all the ads and all the promises, and then ask yourself, what are the odds that LOVE will save the day?

“All’s fair in love and war.”

Crowd the Bubble

Handy Hubby claims he’s becoming a social distancing bully.

I think he’s becoming a perfect disciple of civil disobedience and further honing his already natural aptitudes in that essential discipline. He complied with Costco’s face mask dumbass police-y, but at least he makes it expensive for the collective in so doing.

The corporations will only respond to strong collective action, strong collective action can only be flamed by the torch of the strong individual.

So, of his own accord, he chose to crowd the bubble. He wore the mask, because we have a fetish for bulk shopping, and I hate shopping. He took another one for the team.

He just made a few of his own rules along the way.  Like, once a shopper’s indecision caused him a moment’s annoyance, he broached the six-foot distancing zone, causing enough discomfort for the shopper to stop hemming and hawing and make a choice already, so he could move in for his kill.

I’ve already mentioned in many posts he’s nearly an expert marksman. He shops the same way he shoots, which was the same way he seduced me—move in quietly, have a concise agenda, work fast, take no prisoners.

As further recrimination, he repeatedly pulled down his mask.  Why would he pull such a stunt?  Oh, just because he couldn’t breath.  Well, I guess breathing is considered the entire reason for social distancing these days, so mark that another winner!

For my part, I slowly, oh so slowly, basked in the empty aisles of my favorite antique store, touching everything of even remote interest.  I filed longingly through several old books and bought a few, with cash.  Then I put another few items on credit card, and watched as the clerk, who knows me now, because she knows I love it there, use hand sanitizer.  I said, “You know, I know you’re following police-y, but that stuff is not good for you.”  She confided, I know, I’m just trying to be cautious and accommodating.  I said, with a wink, refill the bottle with lavender-scented water and aloe vera gel , no one will suspect a thing.

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Recently, one of Hubby’s passengers was tested positive for the cornholio, now he’s lying in the hammock drinking beer for breakfast. This is what quarantine looks like here at Chez Shell, aka Kensho Homestead.

Thanks Corporatocracy! Greatest Apocalypse Ever!

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I will end here and now blessed with a river of knowing in this song, passed along through the hands of one receptive woman, and in deep bows to those who are waving along the banks as I flow, have inspired me, challenged me, caused me the pain and chaos that sparks my flame, as an individual, passing, in wisdom.

And occasionally, with great and aching discernment, even very selective gratitude.

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