So well, mine have potential but they’re way too acidic. The recipe I got had barely more sugar than my pickles onions, that may be the reason. I’ll try the next jar with way more sugar.

Are we talking pickled rhubarb, or fresh?

You know, 4 years ago I thought 100 square meters would be plenty for my garden. Now I’m struggling to fit everything I want in 300 square meters.
And you just told me I can’t remove the rhubarb because there’s something new to try with it. Damn. Thanks.

You said “cheese.” Nothing else matters. I’ll try it very soon. Let’s report back!

Ok tell me more about the rhubarb. Please. I have a huge plant in my garden and never touch it. Because I don’t like rhubarb.
Don’t ask why I planted one, okay?
How is it? What do you eat it with?

Dunno how it works where you are, but I (author) get money from library books. Much less than when a reader buys it (duh), but it pays for nice Christmas presents.

Please! It’s islamphobia and “narcotraffic” (i.e. small-scale pot dealers, who have no future anyway because of racism, classism, prejudice, and Paris-centrism.)

In my late forties and I couldn’t tell you what year I graduated. I know I fucked up so bad freshman year I had to switch from an Ivy League to an okay school with zero credit to my name, and lost a whole year, I know I got to 90% done with three different minors I ended up hating and dropping. I know I’m successful and happy in my career.
It doesn’t matter a bit.
Also, you’re struggling BUT doing it. That’s way more impressive than cruising through college.

Yup, it’s a way to use old bread instead of letting it go to waste.

French here: it works. Miam.

Obviously, 2 is really bad. 5 is nice.

Honestly, when I remember it, I can hear the fabric of reality tearing.

I was 16, on a road-trip in the US with my dad and my sister. We’re French. First time in the US. Get to NYC after a month. That was before Internet existed: we had booked a room in the Central Park YMCA by mail. Reception goes: “Yes, you’re in the book. LastName, 2 people, today through next Saturday.”
“Err, no, sorry, the dates are right but there are 3 of us.”
“Oh, we must have written it down wrong, no problem, we’ll give you a bigger room.” We get to our room. 5 minutes later there’s a knock on the door. My sister opens it. My dad’s jaw clatters on the lino floor. It was his estranged dad and very much estranged step-mother. He hadn’t been in touch for 20 years; I had met them once when I was 3; my sister, never. They had booked a room under the same LastName (duh), for the same 6 nights, in the same hostel, for their first visit to the US.
We did spend some time with them in NYC, but it didn’t lead to any happily-ever-after, family-healing breakthrough, because they were jerks or, to be honest, monsters.