Monday, August 26, 2013

For The Love Of All That Is Junk Food, Make It Stop!

Huh. Just yesterday, I made the point that Farmer H has no sense of personal boundaries when it comes to food earmarked for another. The boys have known for years that their Easter baskets are not safe, and their Christmas stockings will be pilfered. Even with the advent of Farmer H's sugar-free candy requirements, the odd fun-size confection disappears.

I thought Farmer H had been duly chastised over the purloined pulled pork. Never have I seen such a criminal fly into a rage at being rightly accused, and NOT LEARN HIS LESSON!

Friday night we had Chinese take-out. It included Crab Rangoon, for those of you who swing that way. Of course the best part is the mushy crabby center. But that crusty part is good, too. I saved those crispy corners. Sealed them up tight in a ziplock bag for later savorin'. Not so Farmer H. He set his crispy corners aside in a bowl like discarded bones from chicken wings. Let them sit on the stove all night. Absorbing humidity, dust particles, airborne bacteria, and probably serving as a dance floor for a two-stepping poop-crawler that evaded my flyswatter. You know Farmer H. I meant to tell The Pony to throw those rejects out to the animals.

I would have to tell The Pony, because Farmer H doesn't know what's going on. That's his standard excuse when he violates my Mansion rules. Even though I have always put the old bread on the counter for him to take to the chickens, he suddenly stopped tossing them a crumb. Then he went to eat a slice of bread, and exclaimed in shock, "That bread was MOLDY!" Farmer H has a thing about moldy bread. He hates it as much as hairless pink baby mice in the pocket of his coveralls.

This evening I went looking for my Friday night Crab Rangoon crispy corners. They were gone. I looked all over the counter beside the toaster, very close to the week-old bread stash, under the net bag of on-the-vine baby tomatoes. No corners.

When Farmer H came in from tending his animals that were no doubt sniffing him longingly for a hint of stale bread, I asked if he had seen my Crab Rangoon corners.

"Oh. I gave them to the chickens the other day."

This calls for hardcore tactics. I'm going to start wrapping my goodies in foil and stashing them in the deep recesses of Frig.


Sioux said...

And if you label it "tofu casserole" no one will bother it...

knancy said...

Just slide them behind the pickle jar. Men do not move refrigerator items to look for anything. They just stand there with the door open waiting for something to announce its presence. My son would do this and holler at me in another room and ask where something was. Finally, I just told him to move the pickle jar and look for it.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Around this place, I could label it "three-months-expired crap sandwich" and if they thought it was mine, they would eat it.

In Farmer H's perfect world, Frig would be stocked floor-to-ceiling with hot dogs. Any kind. Every kind. Frig would be the Bubba Gump's Hot Dogs of Hillmomba. That's all he ever cooks for himself. Unless he sees something that is earmarked by me for me.