Components:
Seven big, fresh beets
One vinegar cup
A half-cup of sugar
Half a teaspoon of whole cloves
Half a teaspoon of whole allspice
A half-teaspoon of salt
Guidelines:
Now let’s talk about the beets. Give them a thorough cleaning before chopping off the tops, leaving approximately one inch. Put them in a Dutch oven with water on top of them. After bringing the water to a boil, cover and cook the beets gently for 25 to 30 minutes, or until they are soft. When finished, carefully remove them from the water and allow them cool.
Once the beets have cooled, remove the skins and cut them into the desired shapes. Sliced beets should be placed in a basin and left for a short while.
Next, place the vinegar, sugar, salt, allspice, and whole cloves in a small pot. It should take around five minutes to bring this mixture to a boil. Pour the boiling fluid over the beets that have been cut into slices.
Before serving, the beets should be chilled for at least an hour for optimal results. You just need to drain the liquid and your delicious pickled beets are ready to eat!
These nutritious pickled beets are a great way to start a meal or as a light snack.
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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