Bacon grease; a tale of a good beating

In honor of this past Mother's Day weekend, I thought I'd share this with you. My mom was born and raised in Georgia. Bacon grease should be on her family plaque. So, when I was about eight years old or so, I thought "hey, wouldn't it be nice if I cleaned the kitchen for mom?". Nobody answered me because I was raised an only child. But being a latch key kid, I had to amuse myself until the queen, er, I mean, mom came home. Gotta give the woman credit; she worked a really stressful job and came home to my lonely ass who talked her ear off as if I'd been in solitary confinement for three months. Tidbit about my mom...she's NOT a talker and she doesn't understand why in the world people talk when they don't need to. We butt heads...a lot. But she's got some really good dirty jokes and for that, I'm thankful.

So, on to me cleaning the kitchen...I cleaned everything...even her silver metal jar thingy of bacon grease. I'm sure it had about three months worth of fat in that damn thing. It goes to say that not only did I learn about the precious fatty gold that Southern Women so patiently reserve for delicious meals for their families (odd because it's the worst shit ever to put in your body besides fucking hot dogs), but I learned that my mother has a lot of restraint. I'm sure she wanted to beat the living shit out of me and it wouldn't be the first time. But she didn't. And that's why I'm able to write you this story today that means absolutely nothing. Just know that you should never, ever throw away saved bacon grease. Ever. I love you mom.