Wednesday, August 7, 2013

The Help Is Not Just A Movie In Theaters

Farmer H was a handy little kitchen helper last night. And you know what that means. He made sure I'll never ask him to help again.

Actually, I did not ask him to help this time. I was planning to do it myself. The boys wanted Chef Boyardee deep dish pizza. It makes a really fluffy crust in a 9x13 glass pan. That's about all there is to a Chef Boyardee pizza. A lot of fluffy crust. Sauce from a can. And a packet of dried cheese sprinkled on top. My boys eat it up. It's a favorite for them, though not for me, what with the dough rising and the cleanup. Anyhoo...Farmer H and I had pork steaks with Shake N Bake, and some sliced auction tomatoes.

Later in the evening, when I remembered that the Chef had most likely cooled down by now, I had The Pony call upstairs to ask. Farmer H replied that he was getting ready to put it away. He does that sometimes, when I set out the proper leftover containage. This time, I was planning to put the Chef in foil. That way it is easy to reheat the next day. You have to leave a little tent on top so the sauce doesn't stick. Because then all you have left is a square of fluffy crust. Which isn't even proper to call imitation pizza. Since Farmer H offered, I allowed him to wrap the leftovers. I'm a regular Tom Sawyer when it comes to allowing folks to do chores when they beg me.

I was also planning to rinse the dishes to set beside the sink, because I might have mentioned a time or two that the Mansion is the only house in North America without a dishwasher. This morning, I discovered that Farmer H had outdone himself. Really.

The pizza that the boys planned on having for lunch was wrapped in foil. Wrapped like bricks of heroin trying to outsmart a border canine. Wrapped like stacks of money to be hidden in a toilet tank. Wrapped like a murder weapon in a Partners in Crime Women's Mystery Writers manuscript. The Vacuum Sealer itself could not have provided a more hermetic environment for the Chef. On the bright side, the boys love some warm fluffy crust fresh from the oven, with just a hint of sauce.

The #1 son alerted me to Famer H's other kitchen faux pas. He had taken it upon himself to rinse my pork steak plate. Rinsing to Farmer H means blasting an item with cold water from the sink sprayer. It doesn't remove any greasy residue, but distributes particulate matter all over the kitchen.

"EEWW! What's wrong with the sink? What's in here? It's DISgusting!"

I went to look. Crumbs from the Shake N Bake coating had glued themselves to the sides of my almond sink like spitballs on a classroom wall after an elderly substitute's supervision. Like Farmer H was trying to make a stucco sink happen. Ahem. Gretchen Wieners called, and she wants her "fetch" back.

For my next holiday gift, rather than a $3 pink change purse and a box of SnoCaps, I would like Farmer H to give me a little homemade card with a note that says, "Good for one night of not-helping clean up the kitchen."

A dozen would be really nice.


Sioux said...

It was Shake 'n Bake and HE hepped!

Hillbilly Mom said...

I hope I never catch him arguing with the Parkay.

Kathy's Klothesline said...

This is why I refuse those silly offers of help in the kitchen. On the other hand, I do not put fuel in my car. I make him do it. I know how, I just don't want to. He would be lost without me to wash his clothes and prepare his meals, not to mention filling his pill taker with the right pills. I, on the other hand, would be able to survive. Until I got to Minnesota and turned that job over to a son or son-in-law ......

Hillbilly Mom said...

I do my own fuel, but I don't do Farmer H's laundry, due to a longstanding feud we have over soiled garment placement.

Good to know that you can survive as far as one tank of gas can take you.