Well, the canning of the BadAss Spicy Dill Carrots is complete.
And I only have one slightly major burn on my palm.
Canning is such a slow process. God, it's like a 98 year old granny driving her '67 Buick 7 miles an hour on the Autobahn type of slow.
Fill up a gigantic pot with water, wait 42 days for it to start boiling, fill your jars with whatever the f*ck you're canning, start to wonder why the f*ck you planted so many damn carrots, ladle in the brine, make note to self to burn the garden down, put all jars in the gigantic pot, wait another 19 years for the water to start boiling again, then boil for 15 minutes, and finally shank yourself in the eye because vision loss would be less painful than all this freaking waiting.
Here is the process, mid-canning:
|That is not a scary green monster in my sink btw, it's just half dead dill.|
Seriously, my kitchen is like the size of a handicapped porta potty. That means you're only allowed 1 ass in the kitchen at a time. No exceptions. Otherwise, you end up doing a ugly triple jump to hop over the dog, pirouette around your husband, all while holding either a really sharp Ginsu or a hot dish of lasagna, and trying not to body slam the fridge and end up stabbing yourself, your husband, the fridge or the dog. Or spill lasagna down your shirt and burn your tatas.
Basically, the spacious room makes canning a breeze.
Here's the ingredients making their way into the jars.
And the finished product!!!!
And now I have 13 jars of spicy carrots for my bloody mary's.
Shitballs, forgot I'm not drinking.
THIS WAS ALL FOR NOTHING!!!
Next up is a dump truck load of salsa.
Oh, and while we're on the subject (***WARNING: Boys, you better just skip this part. Yucky girl stuff.), I hate being a woman.
Ya, that had nothing to do with canning. Moving on.
As defined by wikipedia: Menstruation is the shedding of the uterine lining.
As defined by LauraBelle: Evil satanist demons using wire bristle brushes, dipped in acid, and set on fire to scrape the inner lining of your internal organs off, all while your mind completely leaves your body and is replaced with a Misery-style Kathy Bates mixed with a little poltergeist to drive yourself and anyone within 10 miles of you batshit crazy.
I want to either physically rip out my uterus or be tarred and feathered, either way, those things would be less painful than what I'm going through right now.
Sorry to go off there for a minute, but because of the pain, my thought processes consist of either woman's issues or the thought of puking. So I went with woman's issues on this.
See, I'm not even making sense.
Damn you Mother Nature!!!!!
I should go.
Or cut a person.
OK, going now.
And I'll try not to cut a person.