Farmer H is quite possibly the most helpless man on the face of the earth. I know he has a lot of competition. But in this area he excels. I don't mean to brag about my spouse, but I feel it's only fair that the internet world understands what it's like to walk a day in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Crocs.
This evening I used my new element to warm up a deli pizza from The Devil's Playground. It's been quite some time since we had one, because, well, The Devil's deli pizza is not good with a soggy crust. And a soggy crust is what you get if you have a bottom element on vacation, with a three-month-old Cheerio chillin' on the oven floor. So I bought this extra-large deli pizza, because it's more economic, you know, it's all about my plastic Benjamins, and I cooked half of it for supper at the request of Farmer H. Only in his eyes, I did not so much cook it as I warmed it in the oven.
Let the record show that this was a supreme pizza. Mrs. HM likes her peppers and tomatoes and onions and black olives. Farmer H prefers the sausage and pepperoni. I am not averse to sausage. It's my favorite pizza meat. But I cannot abide by pepperoni. This has frustrated Farmer H for nigh on twenty-five years, since it precludes him from Meatzas and Meats and Meat Galores and all the manly pies. He has gone so far as to order a Meat Galore and instruct the maker to put all the pepperoni on one side. Other times he has just TOLD me that he did this, and I bit into pepperoni and had heartburn all evening. Farmer H's Waterloo is pepper. Green pepper, red pepper, yellow pepper...he would not like to be a pepper too. Which leads me to the simple one-sentence point that I could have made many lines above: I divide the pizza by putting all pepperoni on one side, and all the colorful peppers on the other side. VOILA! We are a regular Jack Sprat and wife.
The pizza, even halved, was still quite substantial. It would have made two good New York slices, or about six or eight slices on the buffet at CiCi's Pizza. The Pony opted out, liking only plain cheese, and had a hot ham on toasted wheat with tomato. When the pizza was ready, I called to Farmer H, who was planning to leave for the auction within thirty minutes. I was slicing tomato for The Pony, but I set the giant butcher knife of the kind made by Farmer H's factory where he could reach it for his pizza. I set the hot holey pan holding the two pizza wedges on the stovetop.
Farmer H stumped into the kitchen, looked at the pizza, touched the edge of the pepperoni wedge with the tip of the knife, and asked, "Is this mine?" SWEET GUMMI MARY! Unless he had suddenly developed an appetite for peppers, it should have been perfectly clear which section belonged to him. I assured him that he had guessed right, and Farmer H started to slice his pizza. Of course this was a task that he could not accomplish. The crust did not cut all the way through. I suppose Farmer H is a weakling, or his factory knives are not all they're cracked up to be. We have a steel, but he made no move to whisk that blade across it. He sighed. I made no move to help with my tiny tomato knife. "I'll just let it cool a while." He stumped back to his La-Z-Boy. There was no way I was cutting his pizza for him. Seriously. Next he'd be wanting me to chew it and swallow it and partially digest it and penguin it back into his mouth.
I walked past him to the bedroom to lay down a few minutes. He was up and back to the kitchen. It had been a scant 45 seconds of cooling time. That rat was hoping I'd give in and slice his big slice for him!
Yes. When we both retire, I'm going to strap a bonnet on Farmer H's rotund head, plop him in a pram, and push that perambulator up and down the streets of Hillmomba, showing off my big baby. I can't help but think we'll look a little like an illustration in Alice in Wonderland.