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.
4 comments:
You paint quite an image with your words! I am thinking that maybe he should give the cooking a try if he thinks it is so easy to come up with tasty vittles that all the men in your house will eat!
Maybe Farmer H needs to take over the cooking for a week, to show you how it's done?
Of course, nothing he will cook will come from a box or a can or a delivery kid. You're lookin' for lessons on home cookin'--pure and simple.
After a week or a month or a season of lessons, you'll be ready to apply what you've learned.
It's only fair...
Until he can make his own sandwich, he has no room to say anything. Men.
Kathy,
Farmer H's specialty is hot dogs. If the pack isn't open, he cuts the end, takes a couple out, puts that same pack back in Frig. No baggie, no Glad Wrap, no foil, no Tupperware. Because nothing ever goes bad with a hole in the pack. I'm surprised they don't ship and stock the packages that way, so they's be easier for the bears to get their paws into.
Then Farmer H microwaves the hot dogs and puts them on a piece of bread. Not bun. Now, if I am the one doing the hot dogging, he prefers them boiled. Not microwaved. Not oven-roasted.
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Sioux,
I want to see him cook without microwaving, baking, or heating on a burner.
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Chick,
Touche'! The most succinct and appropriate remedy for what ails Farmer H.
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