Voting is like taking public transport No bus or train is going to take you exactly to your door and none ever will You vote for the one that is the nearest to your destination, the one that's vaguely heading in your direction. Don't let perfection get in the way

Liver and onions was on the kitchen table of roughly every British household in the country, at least once a fortnight, from approximately 1850 to approximately 1985. A Tuesday meal. Whatever day the butcher had lamb's liver in, or pig's liver if you were further down the week, or ox liver if the household was stretching the budget. Your mother bought it that afternoon. Still warm, or nearly. Deep burgundy, slick and glossy on the butcher's paper. Half a pound. Tuppence. Change from a shilling. She sliced it quarter of an inch thick, dusted it in seasoned flour, and laid it in a pan where a pound of onions had been going soft in bacon fat for twenty minutes. Two minutes one side. Two minutes the other. The middle still faintly pink. Overcooked liver was a mortal sin in a British kitchen, spoken of by grandmothers with genuine sadness, the way a priest might discuss a lapsed parishioner. Pan juices deglazed with water and Worcestershire, poured over. Mashed potato. A pile of cabbage. A rasher of bacon laid across the top if it was a good week. The whole thing cost, in 1962, approximately 8p per serving. It delivered, in a single plate, the highest concentration of bioavailable vitamin A in any food on earth, more B12 than any supplement will ever contain, haem iron at absorption rates a plant source cannot match, copper, zinc, choline, folate, and selenium. Nobody called it a superfood. Nobody called anything a superfood. It was called Tuesday. Then, between 1985 and 2005, liver quietly disappeared. Mothers stopped buying it. The butcher stopped ordering it. The supermarket stopped stocking it. By 2010, most British adults under thirty had never knowingly eaten it. The word now carries a faint cultural embarrassment. A food your nan ate. Something to move past. Meanwhile, 20% of British women of childbearing age are anaemic. The NHS prescribes them ferrous sulphate tablets that cause nausea and take six months to address a deficiency one plate of liver a fortnight would correct in weeks. The women taking the tablets are, in many cases, the granddaughters of the women who ate the liver. The deficiency is cultural amnesia with a prescription attached. Your butcher still has lamb's liver in the counter. Ask him. He will be delighted. He might throw in the kidneys. Flour. Bacon fat. Onions. Four minutes total. Worcestershire. Mashed potato underneath. The grandmother is gone, but the dish remembers her, and so do you, whether you knew her or not. Eat it. Pass it on.

🇦🇺 This is native pastures 👀👇🏻👇🏻 Credit - IG @farmerpride

ICE officers stopped by our farm yesterday. “We need to inspect your property for illegal aliens,” one of them said. I replied, “Alright, but whatever you do, don’t go into that field over there.” The officer in charge exploded. “Mister, I have the authority of the federal government behind me!” he barked, reaching into his back pocket. He yanked out a badge and shoved it in my face. “See this fucking badge? This badge means I can go wherever I want on ANY land. No questions asked, no answers given. Am I clear? Do you understand?” I nodded politely and said, “Be my guest.” Then I went back to my chores. About ten minutes later, I heard screaming. I looked up and saw six ICE agents running for their lives, being chased by my big, mean, old bull. And with every step, that bull was closing in. Fast. It looked like they were about to get gored for sure. So I dropped my tools, ran over to the fence, and shouted at the top of my lungs: “YOUR BADGE! SHOW HIM YOUR FUCKING BADGE!”

Aussie version is called dead-orse mate.