Once again, Farmer H
has crossed the boundaries of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s expectations. And not in a
good way. The transgressor has transgressed again.
Sunday evening Farmer
H grilled our supper. Let the record show that the temperature was in the 30s,
wind chills even lower, but Farmer H had this bright idea on Saturday, so I
bought the fixin’s. Makes me no never-mind if Farmer H freezes his rumpus off
while preparing our evening meal.
The Pony had a ribeye,
because he’s a meat-eating kind of equine like those nags on the South Pole
mission with Robert Scott. Farmer H declared that he and I would have pork
steaks. Fine with me. A meal I didn’t have to warm in the oven or heat in the
microwave. All I had to do was whip up a salad for The Pony, make him some
garlic bread, heat up some beans in a saucepan for Farmer H and me, and make
him garlic cheese bread. In retrospect, perhaps he had the better deal.
The boundary-crossing
transgression occurred AFTER supper. In fact, I was happily oblivious to it
until 4:50 a.m. the next morning. Farmer H is generally the last Hillbilly
puttering about in the kitchen, sometimes helping himself to second helpings.
As the last man helping, he puts away the remainders of the meal.
Did Farmer H put the
leftover pork steaks in the flat rectangular plasticware that we use for such
items? NO! He wrapped them in foil. Consider the dire consequences of such an
act. HE WRAPPED BBQ PORK STEAKS IN FOIL! Which meant that all the BBQ sauce
clinging to them abandoned the pork steaks to cling to the foil.
Did Farmer H wrap the
stack of three pork steaks in one piece of foil? NO! He wrapped each one
individually.
Did Farmer H set the
pork steak on the foil and fold over the top? NO! He tried to make each package
airtight. He crinkled that foil like some foil decoupage craft project.
“Why did you wrap the
pork steaks in foil?”
“They wouldn’t fit in
those containers. They were too long.”
“That’s why we have
knives.”
“I figured you’d
complain if I cut them.”
Obviously. Because I
unhinge my jaws and swallow my food whole, like a snake, and would not want my tasty BBQ pork steak
dripping with sauce to be cut into a piece smaller than the whole.
We will feast on
leftovers of bare pork steaks. Flavorless. Bare. Pork steaks. Whole.
4 comments:
Thank god! The earth is back on its axis and isn't tilted in a cattywampus way.
The trainable man screwed up. Life is back to normal...
Sioux,
I knew it was too good to be true.
Like when your cat keeps leaving gifts for you on the front porch, but they're not diamonds and chocolates and flowers. No sirree, Bob! They're dead birds and squirrel heads and turds.
He Who pretends to be inept in the kitchen would have gotten out the cake taker or some equally large container, then awakened me to tell me it wouldn't fit in the fridge ........ Foil would have been beyond him, as he would have to find it.
Kathy,
They're so helpless. It's a wonder their big ol' bear paws can manipulate a cake taker OR foil.
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