Farmer H Is The New Morris

Remember Morris the Cat? The orange tabby in those cat food commercials? The cat who spoke in that nasal, put-upon tone? The FINICKY cat, Morris? Farmer H is just like him. Okay...he's not as entertaining as a talking cat, and not something you'd want to cuddle up with on your lap...but Farmer H is FINICKY.

The other night I offered him three different meals, and even though he deigned to choose one, he acted like none of the choices was quite up to his standards. And this is the guy who eats six-week-old bologna and expired slaw. And dog bread. If he was holding out for Broccocaulipeppot for a side dish, he should have asked.

Anyhoo...because it's so hard to read Farmer H's mind, and prepare something that he sees fit to eat, I have been trying selections from The Devil's Playground deli. They have some new pre-prepared items. I served Farmer H some Chicken Marsala a couple weeks ago, and he said it was good. He also had a salad on the side, and said that the Chicken Marsala itself was enough. I asked if I should get it again, and he said yes.

The next time I served Chicken Marsala, I mentioned that I don't really like it all that much. It's seasoned chicken breast over long flat noodles, with some mushroom sauce. The flavor is fine, but I'm not much of a noodle-lover. Anything that's awkward to eat is not something I relish. The boys rarely got spaghetti growing up, because I don't like noodles. If they asked, I'd make it, and then I'd eat something else. The Pony had the idea to make it with elbow macaroni, so that's how we had our spaghetti. Easier to eat.

Anyhoo...the second time I served Chicken Marsala, I mentioned that the noodles seemed dried out, and that it was hard to eat them, because they were in a clump, and seemed about a foot long, wanting to fall off my fork, or slap against my chin. I wondered aloud if maybe I should put a little butter on them prior to putting that pre-made dish in the oven for warming. Farmer H said, "You could put some mushrooms over the top."

Farmer H loves mushrooms. So I used a small can that I keep on hand in the pantry, just because Farmer H loves mushrooms. We add them to our pizza, and into spaghetti sauce (which I now make with the real spaghetti noodles, for Farmer H [sorry, boys], because he's so FINICKY, and that's one meal I know he will eat. For two or three nights.

Anyhoo...this most recent Chicken Marsala night, I asked Farmer H if he wanted the mushrooms on it again. He said he did, but acted kind of weird, even for him. Like I was forcing him to eat the Chicken Marsala, and he didn't want it. Even though he had agreed to it the day before.

"I thought you liked it..."

"I do like it."

"Well, you act like there's something wrong with it. Like you don't want it. Do you want me to sprinkle some mozzarella cheese across the top?"

"Yeah. That might help it."

SWEET GUMMI MARY! Now Farmer H was judging the pre-prepared Chicken Marsala, that he'd said he liked. It's not like I'm going to let him have hot dogs every night. I was actually doing him a favor, warming this pre-prepared Chicken Marsala in the oven, since I don't really like it, and making myself something different anyway.

It gets tiresome, making one meal for Farmer H, and then a different meal for myself. When I ask what he wants to eat, he says, "I don't know. What do you have?" And then he never seems to like the choices, even though they were bought after interrogating him before the weekly shopping trip.

Last night, I made Farmer H the poor man's chicken and dumplings that he likes. Made with tortillas and canned chicken. I called him to the kitchen when it was done, so he could dip his own bowl. You know Farmer H. He doesn't like "juice" in his food. He's the guy who piles his vegetable beef soup up past the sides of the bowl. The vegetable beef soup which Genius says isn't really soup, as much as a bowl of assorted vegetables.

I had put away the leftovers, and was washing the pan, when I called to the living room, "You probably have a spoon in there, don't you?"

"I have a fork."

Silly me. I thought that Farmer H might bring his fork to the sink for me to wash. I guess he figured that since he'd eschewed the real bowl in favor of a two Styrofoam bowls stacked together, his dishwashing assistance should be unnecessary. So I dried the Dawn suds off my hands, and went to the living room to get Farmer H's fork and bowls.

"HOW did you end up with all this liquid in your bowl?"

"I don't know. I don't like liquid."

"I KNOW. That's why I told you to use the slotted spoon."

"I used the dipper."

"Don't you know enough to tilt it to the side, against the pan, and let the liquid drain out?"

"I thought I did."

Much like anything else, Farmer H's efforts to feed himself appear to be a bit lackadaisical.