Farmer H asked for spaghetti last week, and spaghetti I made him, by cracky! When The Pony was here, and the #1 Son eons ago, I also made them garlic cheese bread.
There used to be a Pizza Inn near my $17,000 house in town. It's Puppy Jack's veterinarian's office now. But it used to serve good pizza. Every other Friday, when Farmer H picked up his boys, HOS and The Veteran, we took those youngsters to feast at Pizza Inn. We got pizza and garlic cheese bread. YUM! I figured out how to make it by the time #1 and The Pony were born and old enough to enjoy it.
Since it was just Farmer H and me last week, I didn't plan to go all out, spreading butter and sprinkling shredded mozzarella out of a bag and shaking some garlic salt on top. That's more work that I was prepared to put out for Farmer H. When I bought the hamburger for the sauce at Save A Lot, I grabbed a foil loaf of frozen garlic bread. Normally, when I buy that stuff, it's the sliced Texas Toast kind of garlic bread. Save A Lot was out! So...I got the kind that's like a loaf of french bread sliced down the middle. That meant that I had to hack it into chunks. Frozen.
I hacked 2/4 off the bottom crust. That was more work than if I'd taken the sliced french bread I had in FRIG II and spread it with butter and sprinkled on shredded mozzarella out of a bag and shook some garlic salt on top. Anyhoo...Farmer H had spaghetti and garlic bread for his supper.
I made enough spaghetti for three servings. Farmer H asked for it, so obviously he WANTED it, so I figured he could want it for two more nights. Wednesday night, Farmer H was going to feed the animals and putter around in the BARn. He said he'd warm up his spaghetti when he was ready. But...knowing Farmer H like I do...I offered to lay it all out for him.
"Do you want me to put the spaghetti in a pan on the stove, until you're ready to warm it?" I knew at least it would be in the pan I wanted it in if I did it for him.
"Yeah. If you want to." I HATE it when he says that. Of course, given a choice, I don't WANT to! He could just say, "Yes, please." Not act like I take great joy from it and he's doing ME a favor.
"Okay. How much do you want. The rest of the container?"
"No. Just half of it's good."
"Do you want garlic bread?"
"No. You don't have to make that."
"I mean...the kind you had the other night. The frozen kind. I can put in on a foil pan, ready for you to put in the oven."
"Nah. I'll just toast it."
"I'll warm it in the toaster."
"Uh...you're not going to fit those chunks in the toaster."
"Oh. I thought it was slices."
"You'd actually put Texas Toast coated with butter in the toaster? Where would the butter go?"
"I'd just lay it across the top if it wouldn't fit."
"I'm putting it on a foil pan. I'll write your directions on a paper plate."
"Okay. If you want to."
How in Not-Heaven has that man survived this long? Maybe I should have let him use the toaster, and told him to clean out the melted butter with a fork...while the toaster was ON.