Monday, December 22, 2014

What's Adequate For The Goose Is Not Good Enough For The Gander

Mrs Hillbilly Mom is tired of chewing on the bone while Farmer H eats the steak. Now if we were talking about chewing the fat, perhaps she would be placated. But HM has had enough of the double standard around the Mansion.

Scarcely 10 days ago, we lost Frig. One of the casualties of slow refrigerator death is the contents. Like an elk above the arctic circle must be gutted soon after it is dispatched by a hunter's bullet, lest the meat begin to must the contents of Frig be removed forthwith. Not left marinating in his innards as his internal temp climbs from 28 to 58. Degrees Fahrenheit!

Farmer H thought he was doing a good deed, I suppose, to cart all of Frig's contents to the BARn fridge. Indiscriminately. And piece by piece, he has been bringing them back to stuff Frig II. Some of the first supplies to return were sausage biscuits. They are a breakfast staple in our early-morning rush to commute to work. Farmer H prefers the big sausage egg muffin, while Mrs. HM is partial to the two-pack of little sausage-on-a-bun item sold by Save A Lot.

Apparently, unfavorable items had a way of getting moved from their rightful sausage place in the freezer door into the nether regions behind dinner staples. Farmer H brought them back to life and put them in the door. So when it was time to buy new breakfast biscuits, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was in the dark. That meant we had a week of eating previously untasty breakfast treats.

Mrs. HM sucked it up. No mini-sausage-buns? She took one of the ten or twelve other-biscuits in the door bins. One day a chicken-on-a-biscuit, the next a large sausage biscuit, then a sausage egg biscuit. No big deal. They just needed a bit longer in the two-handled microwave, after opening their crinkly pack and shaking out the ice crystals. Not Mrs. HM's cup of tea, but filling and a source of energy.

Yesterday, while making the shopping list, I asked Farmer H if he needed anything from town. "So you're going to finish off those sausage biscuits in the door?"

"No. Get me my sausage egg muffins. Those in the door are freezer-burned!"

"WHAT? I've been eating them all week. There's nothing wrong with them."

"Well, I'm not eating them."

"Then...Throw. Them. Out."

Uh huh. They were good enough for ME to eat. But not for Farmer H.


Kathy's Klothesline said...

Typical man.

Sioux said...

Apparently Farmer H has a very discriminating palate. Why aren't you cooking up gourmet dishes for him every night? I'm sure he's deserving of 5 Michelin (spelling) star fare...

Hillbilly Mom said...

Filet mignon for him, bone and gristle for me.

If, by "cooking up," you mean "heating in the oven" or "warming in the microwave," I have no excuse. Other than I just don't want to. I can't whip up a towering bowl of soup for him every night, you know.