Monday, June 18, 2012

Veal Prince Orloff Squeezes Out A Single Tear Of Solidarity

I fear that the fleeting specialness that was bestowed upon Farmer H for Father's Day has gone to his head.

He came into the Mansion kitchen this evening as I was putting the finishing touches on our supper. Chopping onions, mushrooms, and tomatoes for the salad. I had just taken a pan of popcorn shrimp out of the oven not thirty seconds before his invasion. He stomped straight to the stove, and snatched a shrimp. Not a regular popcorn shrimp. The biggest one on the pan. A behemoth of a popcorn shrimp. About six regular popcorn shrimp fused together. Before I knew it, Farmer H had popped that whale of a popcorn shrimp into his mouth.

Now, I don't begrudge the king of the castle a purloined popcorn shrimp. Far be it from me to ration the rations of a wage-earning member of the household. chief overseer of sustenance, I make an effort to deplete our larder in an orderly manner. With the #1 son gone to Boys State all week, I have scaled back the banquet. I consulted The Pony on how hungry he was, and what sides were in order, and planned accordingly. I normally cook the entire package of popcorn shrimp, on two pans, side by side. But this evening, I scaled back to one pan. I crammed those popcorn shrimp onto that pan tighter than Southwest Airline passengers flying coach. The popcorn shrimp leviathan poached by Farmer H left one-eighth of the pan bare.

Where to begin on the wrongness of his actions? Surely Farmer H must have been practicing fire-eating all these evening in the BARn. For that flaming popcorn shrimp was fresh out of a 425-degree oven. His hands were unwashed. The service of supper was imminent. Less than five minutes away. He upset the delicate balance of main course and salad.

It was as if Lou Grant was once again plundering Veal Prince Orloff. Thank the Gummi Mary, Farmer H did not take half. But neither did he replace the ill-gained spoils on the serving tray. I have more gumption than Mary Richards, but not as much as Sue Ann Nivens. I huffed at Farmer H. He took offense. Threw up his hands. But he left without further molesting the main dish. I believe his last words were, "Then give me less."

Far be it from me to disobey the command of Farmer H.


Sioux said...

MY husband grabbed a "cookie" right out of the oven one evening, put it into his mouth and clearly expressed his displeasure.


"Wasn't the fact that the cookies are shaped like dog bones a hint?"

Apparently not, when the cookie nabber is Polish...

labbie1 said...

The dog cookie is just TOO FUNNY!!!! LOL

Hillbilly Mom said...

I have some Beggin' Strips. Maybe I should put them in a skillet and go fishin' for Farmer H!

I have a feeling Sioux was laughing best.