That Farmer H! Sometimes he drives me crazy! He's just not picking up what I'm laying down. Friday, for instance. Props to Farmer H for coming out to the garage to carry my meager groceries inside. He plopped them on the cutting block (you surely didn't expect him to put anything away, did you?) and then cranked back in his La-Z-Boy.
I was talking to Farmer H from the kitchen as I put things away. About how I'd bought him some Baked Lays, which are chips he likes but never eats because it doesn't occur to him to buy any. Also, about the Save A Lot supreme pizza we were having for supper before Farmer H's auction. About whether he'd already had lunch, and what.
"Okay. Ham is good. I was hoping you didn't eat that chicken. The date on it is January 11th, but it has already been open for at least a month, back when I was making my own pinwheels, and the package is getting poofy.
I'm going to give it to the dogs tomorrow. In fact, I'm going to lay it out now. So I don't forget, and so it's not cold when I give it to them."
I went on putting away salsa and Wheat Berry bread. Some sardines in mustard sauce. Hot dog buns. Smoked sausages. Farmer H's swirly ice cream cups. Then I opened up the frozen chicken strips I'd just bought, to repackage them into baggies for individual use.
Farmer H is a talker, and he wandered into the kitchen to tell me about Storage Unit Store stuff. He was standing between FRIG II and the stove, at the counter. I was on the other side of the stove, by the sink, pouring the chicken strips onto two paper plates, so I could balance the amounts I was putting into baggies.
"Is that the chicken you were talking about?"
"The chicken you're giving the dogs?"
"NO! This is the GOOD chicken! That I eat, when you get a supper of delicious food. I just have some chicken and salad. I just bought this! No way am I giving it to the dogs!"
"Well, you just said you were laying out chicken to give the dogs."
"THAT chicken! Right in front of you! In the poofy bag! It's the BAD chicken! Don't eat that."
"I mean, you can have some of the good chicken, if you want it. But not the bad chicken."
I guess Farmer H really didn't know the difference between GOOD chicken, and BAD chicken. But he'd better learn, by cracky! At least he had mastered the first step: asking questions of the lady in charge.