The action-packed story of how the endless conservation of my husband's parents took over my house Bashny.Net

Can you make stew? And some pickles? I guess. conservatory Do you have half a balcony or an entire basement? For the whole year, you can enjoy the taste of your own cooked products. A good hobby for a thrifty, mature person who knows the value of things and is friends with mathematics. After all, in the store, such goods are sold at completely wild prices.



The new generation does not appreciate such skills. They prefer to go shopping and buy everything ready, fresh. And in some cases, they are lazy to do even this, simply ordering delivery. What kind of savings can we even talk about in this case? And vegetables in the winter in any supermarket taste like plastic. Is the time saved worth it?

I'm going crazy about the behavior of my husband's parents. I'm just bursting into flames, and there's no end to it. And the problem is banal. Not questions about the kids, not putting your nose in our business. No, they're wonderful people, and I can't even think of them that way. It's all about conservation. This is their favorite activity, their hobby. Probably the meaning of life, too.



They live in a dacha. We moved there to enjoy the country life, fresh air, food and all that kind of romance. My husband doesn’t care, he says it’s in his blood. So I'm not in their business either. But! These adults and pretty nice people lock something in the banks every day. And I just don't know why they do it.

Everything goes in the course: meat, fish, chicken, vegetables, fruits. The father-in-law bought a special machine to make stew, and they have already come up with so many options that the head is around. Have you ever tried fish carcass porridge cooked in the same jar? Or a compote of plums and apples? Neighbors stabbed a boar and sold some to her husband's parents. So they also preserved fresh juicy meat, not regretting. And I was hoping for kebabs.



In short, over time, this has become a problem. Because, first of all, as it turns out, I'm allergic to some types of preservation that have vinegar. And this is a decent part of the twisted vegetables. And secondly, the husband’s mother and father are not lazy at all to bring to us from the country to the city a kilogram of 25-30 of their goods. And then, really, a couple of days. But the banks are stockpiling like an exhibition.

Would you be able to try canned mushrooms if they were collected by a person who does not know anything about mushrooms? I have 5 cans. Imagine that.



I tried handing out these treats at work. But in most cases, colleagues refused. They asked only about the stew, but my husband said that it was only for him, and I was forbidden to distribute it. Neighbors also look suspiciously at me, but politely refuse to offer delicacies. And only in raspberry jam so much sugar injected, pity to tears.

Our apartment is small, there is no extra space. You have to store all these cans on the balcony and cover them with old jackets so that they do not get light. And it's just across my throat, just a lump. I try my best to have aesthetics, style, beauty. I don't want to live like I used to. Another ski over there and an old TV. What a beauty!



The husband, of course, treats this issue much more lightly. He says the foods I'm allergic to he'll eat himself. The rest of the nonsense will try to give friends. So it's gonna be okay. So I don't have to worry. But it's been four months, and I'm constantly looking at this warehouse. At least when I'm hanging up. More often than not.

As a result, I decided to take a few cans to the trash. So far, the most, let’s say, useless representatives have got there: copies with cracks, bloated. Some old cucumbers, zucchini and huge tomatoes. In short, nothing of value. A little bit, but breathing became easier. Too bad I had to throw out the cans for conservation. But I already know which store sells empty containers to give to my husband's parents.



Yesterday my husband came to me with huge guilty eyes and asked me not to swear. He read that there is, it turns out, such a thing, called kombucha. It is a very useful rubbish, and you can grow it completely without any difficulty. But it's just a car. And he showed me a three-liter jar of ordinary nasty kombucha.



Of course, the divorce didn’t happen. But now this kombucha is floating down water pipes somewhere. And most importantly, the problem remains a problem. The parents of the husband do not want to stop their visits with all sorts of care. Neither my husband nor I can stop them. And my mental health is not getting stronger from all these actions. How can you divorce your husband’s beloved parents?