Wednesday, September 26, 2012

The Opportunist

Tonight is Survivor night. So I have to get my chores done early in order to blog and then watch my show. Last night, for example, I threw in a load of laundry, washed a sinkful of dishes, then whipped up a meal so that I would be freer with my time tonight.

I saved some chili for Farmer H to have chili dogs tonight. He professes that he LOVES chili dogs. Even hot dogs. And all that time I thought he was just lazy because that's all he ate when I was away or unable to warm something for him in the oven or microwave.

Tonight I fed the boys popcorn shrimp and baked potatoes. Don't be askin' about the green leafy vegetables. That ain't happenin' with The Pony, and the #1 son was served up broccoli, lettuce, and mini carrots with the turkey sub in today's school lunch. It's feast or famine in that cafeteria. Farmer H came in as I was scrubbing the potatoes. Let the record show that he was asked about his dinner selection this morning, and heartily agreed to the chili dogs. I told Farmer H that I was getting ready to put his hot dogs in the oven with the shrimp. Hot dogs cooked that way come out like they've been roasted over a fire. I also told him that I would put the chili in a pan on the back burner.

Farmer H declared that he was going out in the rain with his goats and chickens, then to the BARn, and that he would get his own chili dogs later. I asked if he was sure. The oven was already on. No trouble, really. But he declined the offer to warm his food. He planned to microwave the hot dogs and the chili later in the evening.

I served the boys, then set a tray holding mini-tacos in the oven for myself. You can't beat a good mini-taco with Save A Lot mild salsa on the side. They were supposed to cook (I mean WARM) for six to seven minutes. I finally took time to change into my fetching gray-and-purple ripped sweatpants and non-matching blue-and-white pin-striped oxford shirt with black socks and red Crocs. When I came out of the bathroom, there was Farmer H, standing at the #1 son's bedroom door. You didn't think #1 would still be eating after six minutes, did you?

"So you don't want your taquitos, or whatever they are?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"In the oven. Those taquitos."

"I had shrimp."

"Oh. So they're not yours?"


I strolled up unnoticed. "What are you doing?"

"What! You scared me!"

"You're not eating my mini-tacos."

"I didn't touch your mini-tacos."

"Then how do you know that's what I'm having?"

"I looked in the oven."

"Why? You said you were going to the BARn, and that you would make your own supper later. I guess it's way easier to take whatever you find in the oven."

"I ain't takin' nothin'!"

"You sure were trying to work a deal for my mini-tacos. It's not like they are abandoned property, free for the taking. I was gone five minutes to change clothes, and you're already after my food."

"Forget it! Don't make me anything!"

Um. Did I offer to make him anything? I think not. That ship had already sailed, and he was leaning over the rail to wave and shout, "Bon voyage!"

The current status finds the mini-tacos comfortably digesting in my belly, and Farmer H gone back to town. I'm sure he is buying himself fast food, in an effort to foment dissension.  Won't work. I am sated and validated.



Sioux said...

Men like to hunt, they like the thrill of the chase.

Hunting for the last can of Spam in the cupboard...chasing after the tater tot that rolled off the pan and onto the counter. Finding your mini-tacos--to Farmer H--was like sighting a huge buck with his rifle in hand.

Next time, "mark" it somehow, because next time, he might not even ask. He might just take...

Hillbilly Mom said...

You're right. He sure was wheelin' and dealin' with the boy, who had no claim to my mini-tacos. I'll be darned if a man who doesn't even know what they are is going to steal them right out from under my nose.