It's A Big Day

For several reasons. But I've forgotten them.

Except for this one.

And it's fuckin' huge.

I cleaned out this:

To make room for 16 of these...

After an hour, a glass of wine and the entirety of Nirvana's Nevermind, I succeeded in reducing the contents of my fridge to this:

That was after tossing out almost everything inside - including two jars of lemon curd. What the fuck am I doing with lemon curd? I'm not British, nor do I prefer any manner of curd other than the cheese variety.

Anyway........I did it.

Impressive, isn't it. Wars have started over these glorious homemade pickles. Peace treaties have been negotiated. Children have been sold. Lambies have been martyred. Civilizations have been conquered. Goods and services have been bartered. Homesteads have been pillaged. Stamp collections forsaken. Leather jackets sold to Buffalo Exchange. All for these pickles.

Normally the pickle-making party is the event of the season. This year it was just WORK. The demand has gotten so high (see paragraph above) that there is no joy in the stuffing of the jars...only determination to get as many cucs in as possible. Ok, there was some joy, but it was working joy. Is that a thing? Seriously though, I broke a sweat.

Next year I'm bringing up the option of outsourcing. I know lots of children without jobs.

Anyway, if in two months, when they mature, anyone remembers that it's time for the pickles to be mature and writes me a gloriously pickle-related limerick...I'll send them a jar.

See, I'm safe because no one will do that.