Canning. Not caning.

It’s pretty typical. Show up to my moms house to pick her up and she’s just walking in from the back yard with a colander of apricots.

I’m all ready to go! Just have to can these apricots!

This will just take a second.

Amazingly enough, it does. She has canning down to an art form. I would try to describe the process, but that would insinuate that I understand and perhaps even know how to can.

But I don’t. I only know how to cane. I’ve helped her, but don’t trust myself not to kill people with some kind of tasty lethal bacteria injected preserves.

Mom, on the other hand? She’s like a walking Portlandia skit.

Left over figs?

Canned them.

Shirachi?

Made it. Then canned it.

Pickles?

Totally canned it. In both fruit and vegetable.

This is flavored vodka. Canned home made flavored vodka, one pepper and one cucumber.

My mom is totally out of control. When the zombie apocalypse hits? I’m totally going to moms house. We could survive comfortably for months there. Plus she has all the necessary garden implements for killing said zombies.

See? Who says I don’t have a plan?