Once again, Farmer H has disparaged my talents.
He declared that what I do in the kitchen is not cooking. All I do is heat something up in the microwave, or warm it in the oven, or turn on a burner.
Maybe I'm missing something here. Because even though I am not a card-carrying member of Mensa, I kind of regard those acts as cooking. I am at a loss for what he expects.
Am I supposed to stake a claim, break up the sod with a team of oxen, plant, harvest, winnow, grind, stir raw materials in a wooden bowl, wring a chicken's neck, pluck it, scoop out the innards, stuff it with vegetables harvested from my root garden, bake in a clay oven, and serve up the meal on a hand-hewn table under my sod roof as the sunset glints through the greased paper windows?
Farmer H needs to seek a mail-order bride.