First, you cut that fat into chunks. Put it in a dutch oven with some water:
There was so much fat, that I had to do one on the stove top and one in the oven. The whole process took about 5 hours.
Here's what it looks like rendered:
and the final product:
I got 6 pints of Liquid Gold out of all that pig fat! I thought there would be more.
So in Fatass' endeavour to become a sin Fwench woman, she quit drinking...again and is now taking a kickboxing class. She's had two classes so far and loves it. What's not to love, you get to wear those goofy gloves that you can't pick up your water bottle with and you get to hit and kick shit.
On Saturday, Fatass took her second class. She thought you'd like to see a picture of the studio and how freakin sinny and Fwench she looks.
Here's the thing, before you start hitting and kicking shit, you have to warm up. On Saturday, this consisted of running around the circumference of the studio. See that floor? It's cushy and grippy. See those shoes? They're not cushy, but they are grippy. So, there I am jogging around the circumference of the studio with the other 10 or so people, feeling all, well, Fwenchy...when all of a sudden, it feels like I'm starting to trip...oh, yeah...I'm really starting to trip and now I'm going to fall...wait, I think I caught myself from going all the way over...no wait, I...I...Oh man, I'm goin down...and hard.
There Fatass lays on the ground while all those 20-something-skinny-beeaaches run around her corpulent body. The mic'd instructor comes running over...fast, like maybe he thinks Fatass broke a hip or something. He asks me if Fatass is alright. Did I tell you his mic was on? Fatass says "Oh yeah." and then mumbles something about her foot getting caught on the grippy floor. Finally, we're done with that stupid sticky floor running and we get to go over and stand next to our bags. At this point, I'm pretty sure I'm bleeding from my knee and I'm afraid to look down for fear it will be running out the bottom of my pants and messing the sticky floor.
Anyway, the class starts. I look across the room to the site where Fatass took her header and look at the mirror...there on the mirror are several of Fatass' greezy hand prints. You could actually reconstruct the fall from looking at the position of the hand prints and then following the trail of the the oily prints that slid all the way down the mirror to the ground.
I'm going barefoot from now on!
I-Want-Someone-New-To-Play-With-Poppy's brother, Bill came over for the weekend. While Fatass was busy making a different kind of ass out of herself, Poppy and Bro-Bill were playing all around town. Since Bro-Bill is a handy kind of guy, we asked him if he wouldn't mind taking a look at the place on the house where all the wires come in from the telephone poles. See, most wiring that comes from the pole, goes down a pipe that feeds into your house. At the point where the wires go down the pipe, there is a hood that goes over the wires and the entrance of the pipe so no water gets in. Well, some months back, we had a big wind storm and our hoodie thing fell off and that left the wires and the pipe exposed. I'm figuring the first big rain we have, out house is going to short out and explode in a ball of fire. Check it out:
In return for Bro-Bill's expert Hoodie-House-Bling application we fed him MEAT! You wanna see a happy guy? Yeah, give him a hunk-o-beef and some mashed potatoes...