Saint Chad, Saint Winifred or more properly Winefride or Gwenffrewi, Bishop Aldulf, King Offa, and a whole bunch of other people including Freckles are waiting for our hero at the Tri-County Lunatic Asylum of Afon-Bedd. But what with one thing and another, they're all just going to have to wait a little longer. There's a device downstairs waiting for Beans. It arrived yesterday, a huge box which was delivered by the Postman, who was glad to be rid of it because it took up so much space in his vehicle. I know exactly how he felt, and when he left to continue his round he had a ripe Mellon and a couple of Cucumber to sooth his brow. And yes! There have been experimental activities on my part, some of them successful, others less so, but at the same time there remains a level of confidence that has produced the odd peculiar dream around dark cupboards, shelving, perfectly labeled canned goods and indexing systems.
And I'll tell you this much, this thing's big enough to hold seven quart jars,
so we're talking volume, not Boiling Water Bath volume, but nonetheless volume.
The device's manual was OK but more booklet sized, which meant you could put it
down somewhere and it could take up to five minutes to find it again. But the
big point about a manual is readability. If you put it in terms of cigarettes,
and take into account tension levels of the reader, the manual is about a four
cigarette read, so we're talking Front Porch reading with associated
distractions from things like Humming Bird and Girl Cat interactions, a trying
combination without which the manual might well have been a two cigarette read.
Then if you can work out how to get the top of the Pressure Canner onto the
Pressure Canner Base without composing too many angry emails, you can then very
quickly become like a mental patient because there's a pressure dial you can
stare at nervously for at least forty minutes.