Dreams are funny. One minute, you're digging post holes, telling Farmer H not to buy a new truck, and laying out the street plan for your post-apocalyptic community...and the next, you're punching a time clock to shoot pr0n with Joe Francis, the Girls Gone Wild guy, who wistfully tells you he's always wanted to be part of a team.
But enough about dreams. Let's talk about a nightmare.
I was readying some boneless chicken breasts for the oven. My glasses were not readily available. I wanted to check the oven temperature, because believe it or not, I don't walk around with proper cooking temperatures for various meats on a chart in my brain. The Pony prefers his chicken shook-and-baked. Don't tell him, but I simply sprinkle the seasoning on top, because I'm lazy. Shaking on the lemon pepper for Farmer H is about as much effort as I'm willing to expend.
Farmer H was standing by the kitchen door, ready to blow/fly this pop stand/chicken coop for the manly task of treating and covering Poolio for the winter. "Hey! Look on here and see what temperature I should bake this at." I handed him the Shake-N-Bake box, even pointing out the side with the instructions.
"Cook 45 minutes for bone-in chicken."
"No. Not that."
"Cook 20 minutes without bone."
"Cook to 165 degrees."
"No. That's the internal chicken temperature."
"Quick prep. Wash chicken..."
"No! Find the temperature to preheat the oven!"
"Heat oven to 400..."
Bless their little pea-pickin', simple-minded hearts. So nice to look at as shirtless construction workers in a Diet Coke commercial, yet so useless for practical life-skills applications.