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Many years ago, I was living with my 2nd husband in a neighborhood "problem house". We had a total of 10 people, 2 of whom were the owner and her teenage son. Everyone else was basically 'it's this or a cardboard box', including myself and exo facto #2.
One day the homeowner randomly decided it was time to make a batch of strawberry jam to give her living-responsibly-elsewhere daughter. My mom used to make jam and can veggies EVERY summer; it's the only way we ate through the winter when she was super broke (until I was actually out of high school). So I ask if she has any plans for the froth that periodically has to be scraped off the top when you boil down massive amounts of fruit and sugar for jam. Nope, just gonna throw it out. So I did a very, very evil thing when you consider that pretty much everyone BUT her was high on whatever they could get as often as they could get it--this house was in a snotty north-of-Seattle-proper neighborhood.
None of these kids (next to the homeowner, my husband and I were the oldest at pushing 30) had ever tried mozzarella cheese--the really dry kind--with anything super-sweet on it. So I waited until the ones who always had the most weed were good and loaded and gave them mozza sticks dipped in strawberry froth.
We went through 10 pounds of mozzarella and 3 jars of jam in 2 days.
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