My Big Plans to Making Lard at Home
There comes a time in every woman’s life when she says to herself, “Today is the day I am making lard.” That day came for me with high hopes, a little too much confidence, and what I now recognize was a very optimistic choice of container.
Armed with YouTube Shorts and a Proverbs 31 attitude, I set off to render down the fat of our very own home-grown pigs. I had visions of frugality, sustainability, and those tidy little jars of golden lard neatly stacked in my fridge like some sort of homesteading Pinterest queen.
I simmered the pork fat low and slow, just like the internet taught me. For hours I hovered over the pot, feeling oddly empowered—like I should be wearing a pioneer skirt and preaching on the virtues of thrift. The house filled with the scent of bacon—an aroma that, while delightful in a breakfast setting, is apparently a red flag in the world of making lard.
Spoiler alert: lard isn’t supposed to smell like a bacon shop.
Why the Container Matters More Than You Think
But the real trouble started when I chose the container. Oh, the container. If this were a Greek tragedy, the container would be my tragic flaw—my hubris. While all the YouTubers used big round bowls, I, in my infinite wisdom, chose sleek, stackable, square containers.
- Practical.
- Logical.
- Efficient.
And, as it turns out, completely unfit for molten fat.
When Things Get Greasy—Fast
As I poured the scalding lard into the container, it vanished. The container just… ceased to exist.
It didn’t shatter. It didn’t crack. It melted like ice cream on a July sidewalk.
One moment it was plastic, the next it was part of the lard. A culinary lava flow.
The Clean-Up, The Chaos, and the Cookie Sheet That Never Came
In my panic, I called for backup. Joey—bless him—was ordered to grab the metal cookie sheets. He searched in vain, because two days earlier I had reorganized the kitchen and “practically” moved everything. I thought, They’ll find it when they need it.
They did not.
While Joey launched a search-and-rescue mission through the cupboards, the lard—now utterly uncontained—began to seep.
- Into the drawers
- Under the fridge
- Across the floor like the waters of the Nile
I stood there, hands in my hair, repeating, “THIS IS BAD. THIS IS BAD.”
The kids looked at me with wide eyes, slowly beginning to understand that mama might be cracking under pressure. But despite the chaos, they each jumped in to help. And there we were, elbow-deep in greasy disaster, spraying countertops with the sink nozzle and scrubbing down drawers with enough paper towels to reforest a small country.
By some miracle (and a Costco-sized bottle of Dawn), we got it cleaned up. But emotionally? I was done. Finished. Lard: 1, Me: 0.
I promised I’d never try making lard again.
What This Homesteading Fail Taught Me About Motherhood
But then—days later—my daughter asked, “Mama, why don’t you try again? Maybe it’ll work better next time.”
And just like that, my failed kitchen escapade turned into a lesson about something far deeper than pig fat.
Because here’s the thing: I had failed. Spectacularly. But in the eyes of my children, what mattered wasn’t the mess—it was what I did next.
Would I let fear and embarrassment win? Or would I show them what it looks like to try again?
A Biblical Reminder to Try Again
It reminded me of this passage:
“Though the righteous fall seven times, they rise again…”
– Proverbs 24:16
The Real Win Isn’t the Lard—It’s the Lesson
This isn’t just about making lard. This is about grace. About not letting our failures define us.
About rising, again and again, not because we’re perfect, but because our children are watching. Because God isn’t finished with us yet.
So will I try again? Maybe. Probably. With a metal bowl this time.
Because the goal isn’t perfect lard—it’s to raise kids who know that we can laugh at our failures, clean up our messes, and try again with grace in our hearts and maybe a little less plastic in our kitchens.
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