Monday, November 4, 2013

If It Weren't For Bad Help, I'd Have No Help At All

The Helpful Bungler has struck again.

Perhaps I've mentioned how Farmer H doesn't really help out with anything unless he is actually not doing it right and making more work for me. I swear the ratio of help to hindrance is virtually 1/1, and could not be pure coincidence.

Last night I left the leftover corn muffins in the muffin pan. I clearly told The Pony, right in front of the stove, within earshot of Farmer H, "I'm going to leave them in the pan, so they can get a little stale they won't be as moist." We like our muffins with a little brown crust. Since I had taken them out of the oven (a faulty warmer was I) a little early, they were yellow and moist. I actually blame our fresh brown eggs, which are bigger than the standard white-shelled store-bought egg. They are like Grade A XXL eggs. With a yolk of deep pumpkin-hued orange, not one of those yellowy-orange store-egg yolks. Never mind that I always leave muffins in the pan overnight. Corn muffins, blueberry muffins, strawberry muffins, apple-cinnamon muffins...the entire menu of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Gump's Muffins. Farmer H has never molested them before.

This morning I arose to find six muffins stuffed into two ziplock baggies. Not merely covered with a loose sheet of Saran Wrap. Hermetically sealed in plastic. They were suffocating, those muffins. Asphyxiating in their own juices. Oh, but it gets better. And worse. Were my choking baked goods resting upon the burgundy countertop all lined up in a row? No. They were laying akimbo, ass over teakettle, stumps above the tops, on a piece of foil. A piece of foil I had pulled off the pizza pan upon which I had warmed The Pony's crispy fish portions last evening. Foil that I figured could be used another time for other warmings. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a friend of the environment, you know. That half of the foil with a slight greasy patch would not matter for future warming. Guess where those muffin baggies rested. That's correct, you gosh-darn psychics! Right in the middle of the greasy foil half.

Where are Buck Owens and Roy Clark when you need them? Let's start tuning up without them. Turn to page 1 in your Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Song Book and join me in a rousing chorus of Gloom, Despair, and Agony on Me.


Sioux said...

Now, if you had asked him to package the left-over muffins in plastic bags, they would still be sitting in the pan.

Yeah, they are soooo helpful...

Hillbilly Mom said...

Indeed. And he would proclaim that he did not know where to find the plastic bags, having only lived in this very Mansion with me nigh on sixteen years, being unfamiliar with the place for everything.