Saturday nights, Farmer H goes to the auction. He used to eat a hot dog or a sausage there, until the health department shut down the owner's wife's snack bar. Not that there were any reported deaths from food poisoning traced to her. Or even serious illnesses. The clientele think a disgruntled bidder blew the whistle. Anyhoo...there are no hot entrees now. So Farmer H grabs something at home before he heads off to bid on, perhaps buy, some Auction Meat or other treats that he imagines would please Mrs. HM. That means Mrs. HM does not have to prepare a meal. Only throw together a form of sustenance for The Pony and herself.
This week I made pasta for The Pony. Sure, it was out of a box. And it was called Pasta Roni. But earlier in the week, I made him some out of a bag, Lipton, perhaps, and it was Alfredo. To prevent waste, and whipping up TWO meals, I partook of the pasta that The Pony didn't want. To mine, I added some tuna. From a can. It's not like I sailed the seas of Hillmomba to net a live fish and then scaled and fileted it.
It was quite tasty, actually. A throwback to when Little Future Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was a kid sitting at the family dinner table eating tuna and noodles. That's what my mom called it. "What's for supper, Mom?" "Tuna and noodles." Only she actually cooked some kind of flat noodle, perhaps egg noodles, and made a white sauce, and put the tuna in and let it all marinate in the pan. In fact, she might also have put this in a casserole dish, layered some cheese on top, and baked it in the oven. But I distinctly remember its name was Tuna and Noodles.
What most people call it, I suppose, is SOS. Not a call for emergency help. Poop on a Roof. The stuff army guys ate, only with chipped beef in place of the tuna. Of course my mom did not have the vocabulary of GIs. Are you kidding? We were not even allowed to say fart in the house. Or anywhere within Mom's hearing. If she got a whiff of passed gas, she would turn up her nose, crank down her eyebrows, and ask, "Does somebody need to go to the bathroom?" Not-Heaven NO! Nobody needed to go to the bathroom. They were feeling much better after letting out that enormous FART.
Anyhoo...Saturday night I made Poor Woman's SOS. Not that Mrs. HM is poor, mind you. But she is too lazy to whip up her own white sauce and make actual noodles and dirty up a glass dish for baking. I gave The Pony his noodles out of the pan, and stirred in some Solid White Albacore in Water.
Let me assure you that it still tasted like SOS.
This week I made pasta for The Pony. Sure, it was out of a box. And it was called Pasta Roni. But earlier in the week, I made him some out of a bag, Lipton, perhaps, and it was Alfredo. To prevent waste, and whipping up TWO meals, I partook of the pasta that The Pony didn't want. To mine, I added some tuna. From a can. It's not like I sailed the seas of Hillmomba to net a live fish and then scaled and fileted it.
It was quite tasty, actually. A throwback to when Little Future Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was a kid sitting at the family dinner table eating tuna and noodles. That's what my mom called it. "What's for supper, Mom?" "Tuna and noodles." Only she actually cooked some kind of flat noodle, perhaps egg noodles, and made a white sauce, and put the tuna in and let it all marinate in the pan. In fact, she might also have put this in a casserole dish, layered some cheese on top, and baked it in the oven. But I distinctly remember its name was Tuna and Noodles.
What most people call it, I suppose, is SOS. Not a call for emergency help. Poop on a Roof. The stuff army guys ate, only with chipped beef in place of the tuna. Of course my mom did not have the vocabulary of GIs. Are you kidding? We were not even allowed to say fart in the house. Or anywhere within Mom's hearing. If she got a whiff of passed gas, she would turn up her nose, crank down her eyebrows, and ask, "Does somebody need to go to the bathroom?" Not-Heaven NO! Nobody needed to go to the bathroom. They were feeling much better after letting out that enormous FART.
Anyhoo...Saturday night I made Poor Woman's SOS. Not that Mrs. HM is poor, mind you. But she is too lazy to whip up her own white sauce and make actual noodles and dirty up a glass dish for baking. I gave The Pony his noodles out of the pan, and stirred in some Solid White Albacore in Water.
Let me assure you that it still tasted like SOS.
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