Tuesday, August 7, 2012

It's An Honor. Really.

I don't mean to brag. But I have been promoted from chief sandwich-maker to head cheese-cutter. It's true! There may be an upcoming headline in the Hillmomba Times.

There I sat, whiling away the hours in my dark basement lair, tap tap tapping at my keyboard, creating some soon-to-be-forgotten lore, when the opportunity presented itself. The #1 son charged in, inquiring as to whether the household larder harbored sliced cheddar. Well. If only he had asked me one hour earlier, before I took the last of it for my supper. But that's not how things work around the Mansion.

I knew the minute I grabbed those last slices, slapped them on some Townhouse crackers, and added a tasty dill pickle to my plate, that this slapdash feast would come back to bite me on my ample buttocks. Never mind that the #1 son had been fed. I had an inkling. A tiny psychic flash in the back of my mind. The thought that #1 would be raiding Frig later in the evening, seeking these very morsels of bovine by-product.

Oh, there was sharp cheddar aplenty. Still in block shape. A form inedible for a teenage boy. Never mind that one could devour a whole ham by holding the bone at each end and gnawing it like an ear of corn. A rectangle of cheese posed a conundrum. It was too big to put on a cracker. There were no sheets of plastic to peel away. Pounding it on the counter did nothing to improve its digestibility. What to do, what to do? Gasp! MOM! Mom in the basement, pounding out her funny. MY MOM CAN CUT THE CHEESE!

So he stormed my stronghold, not so strong, lacking a lock, lacking a door, Sweet Gummi Mary, lacking even a sheet hung over the threshhold! He flipped on the light. "Is there any cheese? I need some cheese! Where's that cheese I was eating yesterday?"

"Oh. The cheese. I had it for my supper."

"What? There's no cheese?"

"Well, there IS cheese, but it's an eight-ounce block on the second shelf."

"I want some cheese!"

"Can't you cut the cheese?"

"Not like that."

"You want ME to cut the cheese?"


"Great. Go upstairs. Get the cheese. Get the cheese cutter. Haul it down here. And I'll cut the cheese for you, Your Royal Highness."

"Forget it."

He left. And reappeared three minutes later with a paper plate, block of cheese, and cheese cutter. I really did not think he'd do it. But he did.

So I cut the cheese. And told him to observe closely, so next time he could do it for himself. Of course he declared that he KNEW how to cut the cheese. He just wanted me to do it. And he kept shouting things like "Thinner!" And refused to notice how the whole process revolved around a symmetrical carving procedure. Half. Half again. Half of each piece. And so on. Until there were sixteen pieces. Or thirty-two.

Hillbilly Mom. The best cheese-cutter of any cheese-cutters who ever cut the cheese.


Kathy's Klothesline said...

But ...when did you cut the cheese??

knancy said...

Did he at least say, "Thank you"? Most people of the male persuasion never thank the women who have taught them most of what they know how to do (and try not to do). Testosterone seems to boost the ego and BS genes it seems to me.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Pardon me, while I sing "I'll never tell," in that creepy Brittany Murphy way in the Michael Douglas film Don't Say a Word.

As a matter of fact, he did not. SHOCKER! He ran away with that cheese faster than the dish ran away with the spoon.