Sometimes, I am baffled by Farmer H.
At lunch, he grabbed a bag of chips off the cutting block and shook several onto his plate. Nothing unusual there, except the chips were those I'd bought for the #1 son, a kind he favors, and I've never known Farmer H to partake of that flavor.
I knew he wouldn't look in the pantry, where I'd put the Ruffles. That would be too much trouble. Besides, the Ruffles used to be on the cutting block, before #1 came home. I must draw the line somewhere. We cannot have unlimited bags of chips splayed around the area where I must remove Frig's frosty bladder once a week and perform kitchen surgery. You'd think, though, that Farmer H would have noticed that his chips were not chip-colored and ridged, but red-powdered and flat. In fact, I even said as he was shaking them out, "Do you like that kind?"
"I don't know. I've never tried them." Yes. Our adventurous Farmer H. Or, as some say, our lazy Farmer H. I finished up rinsing some dishes for the dishwasher (aka my two hands), then sat on the short couch next to Farmer H's La-Z-Boy as he finished off his food in front of the football game. "Whew! Those chips are HOT! The top of my head is sweating!"
"Well...I don't really know what you expected. After all, they ARE called LAYS Flamin' Hot Chips. You'd think that label on the bag might have been a clue."
"Yeah, I know. But I didn't think they'd be THAT hot!"
Seriously. He looked at this
and complained that the chips were hot.
Farmer H is the guy they make those warnings for on cups of McDonald's coffee.