The battle rages.
Last night Farmer H wanted hamburgers for supper. I hadn't made them in a while. You know. Because the extent of my cooking, to hear him tell it, is heating things in the microwave, or warming them in the oven. So I stood at the stove, patting out the burgers, tending them while they sizzled, cheesing up the buns, slicing pickles and tomatoes and onions, for 45 minutes. Yeah. They're not instant, you know.
I called the boys to get theirs. Went without one myself, because my good pan only holds three comfortably, and I was not about to stand and tend another one for myself. Not worth it. Nor is getting out two pans, and having mine go cold while readying their plates. So...I announced to Farmer H that his meal was available for fixin', and left him to his own devices.
Funny how Farmer H thinks I am going to re-use slices of onion left on the kitchen counter for four hours. Yes. That was the only thing left. Stinky onion slices. A more reasonable person might have stepped around the counter to the kitchen door, and tossed them off the back porch. Or even dumped them in the wastebasket to stink from there for 24 hours until the #1 son took the trash out. But not Farmer H. Those slivers of stinky onion must be preserved at all costs.
This morning, in a rush, I grabbed a Hawaiian roll and a couple of ham wafers not slapped onto The Pony's lunch sandwich to act as my breakfast. The roll needed slicing. I grabbed a clean-looking knife from beside the sink. Carved up my tropical bread. That entire tiny sandwich tasted like onion.
I'm not sure if it was residue on the knife, or if the smell of onion had permeated everything in my kitchen.