Let the record show that I give Puppy Jack and Sweet, Sweet Juno a snack on the front porch every evening after my walk. They get assorted leftovers and expired food from the pantry or FRIG II. On that very day, I had set out a loaf of sliced french bread from The Devil's Playground bakery section. It had been in FRIG II for two weeks, and I'd just bought a loaf to replace it, so I needed the room. The dogs enjoyed their bread snack, along with a few of the softer bones from some Devil's deli chicken. There was still half a loaf left for the next day's snack.
Farmer H was left to his own devices for scrounging his supper Thursday night. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom doesn't
On Friday, Farmer H had plans to go to the auction. I offered to warm him some frozen Buffalo Chicken nuggets that he'd had for the Super Bowl. They're quick. He had about 45 minutes to spare before leaving. He said that yes, that would be good. He liked the Buffalo chicken chunks.
"You can have some slaw with them. Or a salad. And there's a bag of rolls I just bought yesterday. They're in the refrigerator."
"I can have some bread."
"Oh, you mean the garlic bread? Yeah, I can warm that up for you."
"No. That other bread."
"Oh. The french bread. Yeah, I got another loaf of that, too. You'll have to put a twisty on it when you open it. There's one of those tape thingies holding it closed. They always tear the bag when you take it off. I'll lay out a twisty."
"I'll just have the slices, like I had last night."
"What do you mean?"
"On the counter."
"THAT WAS FOR THE DOGS! And I just threw it away THIS MORNING because there was mold growing on the top! I wouldn't even give it to the dogs tonight!"
[Let the record show that the mold looked like a map of the Americas. (Ever since that England is an island debacle, Mrs. HM loves to show off her mad geography skillz whenever she gets a chance.) Let the record further show that Farmer H has a thing about moldy bread, and turns green at the mere thought of touching a bag with moldy bread inside.]
"Well...there wasn't any mold on it last night..." I imagine Farmer H's innards were writhing, despite his rationalization.
One of these days, Farmer H is going to remember that anything set down on the counter in that area is meant to be fed to the chickens, dogs, goat, or mini pony. Until then, he might as well expect to contract food poisoning.
Considering all the trouble Indiana Jones had getting that poison antidote before he entered the Temple of Doom...perhaps Farmer H needs to wear a vial of poison antidote around his neck.