I am feeling a bit queasy at the moment. It could be related to that throbbing vein on my forehead, just above my left eye, that could eventually land me a starring role in a cars.com commercial, with the guy who has a confidence head sprouting out of his shoulder, or a gal whose second head is chillin' out in her bouffant hairdo. Or it could be related to Farmer H's Eggwashing Station.
Farmer H has been warned numerous times about flinging chicken poop willy-nilly about the almond-colored Mansion sink. For a short time, he rinsed them outside at the hose faucet that springs from the ground near the well head. But since early summer, he's been up to his fowl tricks again.
This evening, I prepared supper for the Farmer and the boys, and set a pan of leftover vegetable beef soup on the back burner for myself. It was the dregs of the cauldron. Nobody wants it after the second day, when it has reached the peak of flavor. Because last night's soup feast was somewhat of a debacle, mine being barely lukewarm by the time I was ready to feed, I conceived a plan for tonight's meal. I ran the sink faucet until it was hot, and set a heavy cup under the flow. I was heating the cup to hold my soup. To keep it warm until completely consumed. I put the soup remainders in a saucepan with a lid, and heated it on medium, then left it to simmer on low. I wanted that soup scalding.
Last night I had issues with the #1 son washing his hands at the kitchen sink. Not only did he turn the water to cold, he shed soap lather into my soup cup. By the time I rinsed it and tried to rewarm, my efforts fell flat. And cold.
Tonight Farmer H was running about thirty minutes late. Not that he bothered to call. I knew when I looked at the clock and noticed that he had not yet come blustering in. I fed the boys. I finely tuned my soup cup by running in even hotter water. I retreated to the master bathroom to change my clothes. All the while holding my breath, willing Farmer H to stay away from the kitchen until I had reaped my soup crop that I had so painstakingly sown.
You know what happened, right? I returned to the kitchen to find the egg basket empty, and black flecks floating in my hot-watered soup cup. Farmer H denied pooping up my cup. Said, "Whatever. That's not chicken poop." Even though the water was crystal clear upon last inspection. When the eggs were still in the basket on the counter by the sink. But it gets worse.
As I was washing my soup cup with soap, and carefully rinsing all detergent from it, and running the water again to get it hot, to fill my soup cup and re-reach that optimum toasty temperature...Farmer H reached over his supper on the front burner, lifted the lid to my soup dregs happily bubbling away, and said, "Do you want me to turn off this burner?" LIKE HE WAS THE ONE WARMING THE FOOD ON THE STOVE!!!
"That's MY SOUP!" I snarled, not unlike Chris Farley dressed as Cindy the Gap Girl in the SNL skit where he ate David Spade's fries while giggling coquettishly, then growled in his baritone, "Lay off me! I'm starving!"
Farmer H dropped the lid and ran like a scalded cat. How the worm has turned. Just last evening, he was riding high on a cloud of Hillbilly Mom's good will, having performed a requested errand like a world-champion errand-runner.
I knew it was too good to last. I'm sure Farmer H knew, too.