Hopefully, The Headlines Will Not Report An Epidemic Of Hoof-And-Mouth Disease In Hillmomba

So...we had the big Easter feast at the Mansion yesterday. The #1 son graced us with his presence for two hours. Just slightly longer than the time it took him to drive here. And then again to drive back. Still, it was good to see him. Even though the preparations took roughly as much time as was needed to plan the invasion of Normandy on D-Day. Of course he took back leftovers, though he eschewed the ham. "I'm really not a fan of ham." Huh. I don't know what he thought I was serving when he hit the road.

#1 might be running a sidewalk cafe out of his rental house. Except that he has no sidewalk. Perhaps it's a Cul-de-sac Cafe. He got a coffee maker for Christmas, you know. And he took back enough food to feed a frat house. As long as they don't expect ham. Deviled eggs, hash brown casserole, potato salad, roasted potatoes/carrots/onions (you might have heard about us from our neighbors the Buttertons--the Hillbilly family is sometimes called the Potatotons), green bean bundles, 7-layer salad, a bottle of Kraft Chunky Blue Cheese Dressing, Sister Schubert's rolls, and an unopened package of sharp cheddar cheese slices that expire on April 6th. Hey! How long do you think that cheese is going to last in a house occupied by four college dudes?

Can you believe that boy turned down chocolate pie, and a package of Brookies (a brownie/cookie combination that The Pony picked up at The Devil's Playground), and a box of no-refrigeration-necessary bacon that only needed to be microwaved for crisping? Let the record show that he DID eat a cup of pudding that wouldn't fit in the pie, and said he was not a fan of Brookies (go commiserate with ham, Brookies!), and explained that his house had just bought a package of bacon yesterday, and it cost NINE DOLLARS!

While awaiting the arrival of #1, I ordered The Pony around like an indentured servant during his last week of indenture. He was on call, relegated to the living room couch between jobs, rather than whiling away the morning on his cheap couch in the basement, playing his new video game. The Pony was agreeable, if inefficient. At one point, I started cleaning off the kitchen counter myself, since it was taking him so long to set the table.

"What is THIS? It wasn't here a minute ago."

"Just when I start one thing, you tell me to do something else. That is...your coaster from beside the recliner in the living room."

Let the record show that it is not just Mrs. HM's coaster, but a communal coaster, in the form of a plastic lid from a quart hot&sour soup container.

"Well, I guess I'll just put it in my dishwater here. Where I was washing up the latest bunch of dishes, before I had to clean off the counter, which wasn't being done."

"I was setting the table like you said! You interrupted me when I was clipping my toenails like you told me to do last night."

"What does that have to do with the coaster being in here?"

"That's what I was catching my toenails with. I always do."

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

"WAIT! Were there toenails on that when I put it in the dishwater? Because I'm going to have to start all over with fresh water--"

"No, mother dearest. I dumped the toenails in the wastebasket when I came in, and then started setting the table. So I didn't have a chance to take it back yet."

"Oh. So you only put the EMPTY coaster from the toenails right here by where we're setting the food out for serving. And you're touching every plate, bowl, glass, knife, and fork (The Pony declared we wouldn't need spoons [tell that to pudding-eater #1] so he didn't put any on the table) without having washed your hands?"

"Wash my hands? For what?"

Uh huh. Makes you sorry you missed our feast, doesn't it?