Farmer H had a previous engagement this evening. Which let me off the hook for supper. I had planned to make a meatloaf and some roasted vegetables (that's vinchtables to The Pony), but I can make them tomorrow just as well.
Since we were unsure if Farmer H would come to the Mansion first, or go to his activity straight from work, I volunteered to pick up a Subway for him. Uh huh. Because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is selfless like that. And since I would already be there at the Subway counter, I might as well get something for myself, right?
Farmer H enjoys the coldcut combo. I can never remember the name exactly, but I think that's it. He takes it on wheat with pepper jack, spicy mustard, and pickles, onions, and tomato. I chose the roasted chicken today. Everything the same as Farmer H's preferences except I take no cheese. When he picks up sandwiches, an event that hasn't happened for nigh on five years now, for sure since before the #1 son left for college, Farmer H orders my sandwich first, and when they ask about the cheese, he tells them, "Pepper jack. And I want it put on the NEXT sandwich." As Farmer H sees it, Subway owes me cheese, and if I don't want it, they should put it on his. I will not stoop to those tactics, even though I know people who work in Subway from my Newmentia days.
We always get the foot long. Today I had half for lunch, half for supper. Sometimes Farmer H eats his in one sitting. Sometimes he saves half for the next day. Which gets me out of more cooking! Anyhoo...I didn't know if Farmer H was coming home. I called to ask if he wanted some extra onion and pickle to put on his sandwich. I was slicing some for mine. But he took an early lunch, and couldn't answer his phone. I found that out later, when he called while I was eating my sandwich.
"Oh, I just wanted to know if you would like some extra onion and pickle tonight for your sandwich. But it's too late now. Because I sliced them up, and put it all on MY sandwich. Sorry."
"That's okay. I'll have mine when I get home later. I'm not coming by there first."
No harm, no foul. Had he only contacted me earlier, he could have had some tasty fixin's. You snooze, you lose around the Mansion. I'm not proud that I ate an entire red onion today. And what's up with that name, anyway. RED onion? They're PURPLE, by cracky! The whole pickle doesn't mean anything. But that red onion...I think Even Steven was trying to call me out for my onion gluttony.
The pickle went on the sandwich just fine. It looked like the onion did, too. I sliced it pretty thin, without even lopping off the end of my thumb. Again. I spread it all out on the two sandwich halves. Wrapped up one to leave in Frig II, and took the other to my dark basement lair. I wrapped it, too, in that inner plain white little piece of paper. Swaddled it like a newborn.
Note to all hospitals, everywhere: Do Not Let Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Swaddle Newborns!
I had that sammich wrapped up tight. All the fixin's were accounted for. So what if I had six layers of onion? A whole red onion is quite a lot. It's not like a little green onion, or those in a jar that I hear are used for cocktails. I had put the pickle slices on the bottom bread, and the onion on the top of the sandwich. On top of that slab of roasted chicken that they take out of a tepid water bath with tongs and shake it until it drip-dries.
The beginning of the sammich-eatin' was pretty routine. Then I had to peel back some of the swaddling. Well! That was like undoing a hook on Dolly Parton's bra! The rest of the contents were not-heaven-bent on escaping! When I leaned over my plate and tried to take a bite, those onion slices exploded out of my sammich like cards out of my hand in a game of 52-card pickup! I felt like David Hasselhoff trying to eat a cheeseburger! Not that I'm a drunk with a daughter filming me on a cell phone as I lay on the floor of a hotel in Las Vegas...
I must say, though...that sammich was real, and it was spectacular. Twice.