No Tales Today

Mrs. HM is a bit under the weather with a cold, and not feeling particularly humorous today. The stack of five bills will take precedence when my eyes agree to not water, and allow  me to focus.

It has been one day since my symptoms appeared. I am counting down nine more, since a cold spans 7-10 days. I am erring on the side of caution, though I might feel better in six.

Do not jump to conclusions if I am absent here for a little while. I'll try to put out minimal stories on my not-so-secret blog.

You Can't Get There From Here

Sunday evening we went to the Christmas Eve party at the home of my sister the ex-mayor's wife. Sis goes to great trouble and expense, making finger foods, desserts, and finding games for entertainment, with trinkety prizes. It's just family. The ex-mayor also helps her a lot, with the cooking and cleaning up.

Anyhoo, I'd been worried all week about how I was going to get into Sis's house. Most people enter through the garage, two steps up into the kitchen. Ex-Mayor even put a pull handle on the side of the door frame, to help me get in. It worked for a couple years, but my knees have been rebelling from my week of four batches of Chex Mix, three Oreo Cakes, and two 18-count cartons of deviled eggs. That's a lot of getting up and down. 

The other way in is through the front door. Five steps up onto the porch, and another up into the house. This has been my recent method of ingress. The stumbling block being an ACTUAL stumbling block when stepping down from the driveway onto the sidewalk. There's an actual concrete step, along with a wobbly rock. I have The Pony beside me, to hold onto his shoulder, as there is no handrail.

With my knees so sore and uncooperative, I was afraid to try that stumbling block this year.

"I don't know... maybe I'd be better off to walk down the driveway a bit, and then step into the yard, and walk up to the sidewalk that way."

It was dark when we got there. The Pony took his phone flashlight, and scoped out my proposed path. He gave it the okay. After he and Farmer H carried in the deviled eggs, potato salad, vegetables, and wine that we brought, The Pony came back to be my support animal. LITERAL support!

I made it just fine, except for the tree root that stubbed my toe. I was going slow enough that it couldn't trip me up. The porch steps have a rail. The Pony offered a hand at the top step. And Farmer H was in the house to steady me as I climbed the threshold.

It was a relief to be inside, and to make it to A-Cad unscathed by reversing the process when we left. NOBODY wants to remember The Christmas That Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Was Taken Away In An Ambulance! That is not a tradition that I'm willing to start. 

Poor Pitiful Pony

Poor, pitiful Pony. If you are familiar with a biorhythm chart, The Pony must currently be in a trough with his physical and emotional domains. The intellectual domain seems to be at least on the midline. 

Saturday, about an hour from being finished delivering his route, The Pony took a tumble. I didn't get the details on how it happened. I suppose he put a foot wrong. Badly skinned his right knee. Blood was pouring out. The Pony didn't want to take a chance on treating it with his mail-hands, so waited until he got home. Sadly, a soothing bath in The Pony's big oval tub in his master bathroom was out of the question, due to the knee. But he got it cleaned up and ointmented. It didn't look too bad by Monday.

After Christmas Dinner on Monday, we all partook of a mass scratching of lottery tickets. The Pony only won $5.00!!! That is a travesty. So many tickets, and only this one paltry winner. You're not gonna believe this (or maybe you WILL), but Mrs. HM herself won $345! That was winners of $100, $100, $50, $50, $40, and $5. Let the record show that we all had the same number and denomination of tickets. I shuffled them, laid them out on the table, and made stacks for each family member. It's not like I picked special tickets for myself. They were bought over a couple week's time, at various places. I'm just lucky, I suppose...

At least The Pony did not get caught breaking a work rule. A minor one! There's a wine store on his route. It was Saturday. He wanted some wine to take to the annual Christmas Eve soiree Sunday at the home of my sister the ex-mayor's wife. So while he was inside delivering, he took his break 10 minutes to buy some wine. Which he is not supposed to do in uniform. Sue him if you must! It was not for himself, but one bottle to take to the Christmas Eve dinner, and two bottles as a gift for his cousin.

Hopefully, The Pony's chart will take an upturn when we go to the casino. Can't have him falling all over the premises. Though winning $5 might be a good thing there, since it would mean leaving with more money than he went in with.

Farmer H Takes The Cake

Every Christmas, I am tasked with baking three Oreo Cakes. It's not like I start from scratch, but even using a box mix, three cakes take time. Especially when you have to cut and then chop a package of Oreos before mixing the batter. I need enough Oreo halves to surround the base of the cake, and five halves to arrange on top in a star pattern. Then the rest hacked with a fork into smaller pieces to mix in the batter, reserving the tiny crumbs for sprinkling on top.

The three cakes go to HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son), The Veteran (Farmer H's second son), and our Christmas Dinner. Farmer H delivers the Oreo Cakes to the older boys' houses on Christmas Eve Eve. Which was Saturday this year. So I baked their cakes on Friday.

The baking of the first cake went off without a hitch. I had already cut two packages of Oreos, so that step was done. The first cake was out of the oven and cooling on a rack I set over the dish drainer in my clean sink. I had washed and dried my beaters and mixing bowl and spatula and measuring cup while the first cake was baking. Then I started on Cake 2.

Everything was going smoothly. I had the dry mix, the three eggs, the cup of water, and the half cup of oil in the mixing bowl. I snapped the beaters on the mixer, looked at the microwave clock to time my two minutes, and turned the mixer on MEDIUM. But NOT!

THE MIXER WOULDN'T WORK! It was dead as a doornail!

I knew right away that the problem did not lie with the mixer. I have this issue frequently when trying to bake multiple cakes. Something is wonky with the wiring! Yes. It WAS installed by Farmer H when he built the Mansion. But the rest of our electricity works. Just not the three outlets on this kitchen wall, under the cabinets. The mixer trips the breaker, and none of the three outlets will work. But only the SECOND time I try to use the mixer.

I went to the walk-in closet in the master bathroom to reset the breaker. NOPE! I tried seven ways from Sunday, but nothing would make that breaker stay on! I pushed to the right. I pushed to the left. I held in the little white tab thingy that popped out, and pushed each direction. I pushed each direction, and then held in the little white tab thingy. Nothing worked. 

I went back to my bowl of ingredients, picked up a fork, and began the vigorous 2-minute beating. That was exhausting! I put in the Oreo pieces. The cake pans didn't look quite as full of batter as the first cake. It baked all right. Didn't rise quite as high as the first.

THEN I wanted to move the first cooling cakes off the clean sink, so I could rinse out my bowl without splashing them. The cutting block was taken up by another large mixing bowl that I don't like for mixing. It has a groove round the bottom inside. I use it to balance a smaller rack for cooling cakes.

The first cakes were still in their foil baking pans, on the rack. I picked up the whole rack, telling myself to be careful not to let them slide off. Well. Of course you know what happened. Just as I was setting down that rack on the right side of the cutting block, the far right cake took a swan dive off the rack. Luckily, this cake did not know how to execute a perfect swan dive. Because he landed on his edge, then flopped on his bottom. WHEW! Disaster narrowly averted!

That cake was fine. It didn't even crack. In fact, I think that jarring actually loosened it from the pan for me. Because it came out easily when I tipped it over to cool naked on the rack.

I went to town while the cakes were cooling. Upon return, I picked up the two pizza pans I'd had Farmer H get for me, for washing. I use them to put the cakes on that I give away. Too many years of giving an actual cake carrier. I figured they had enough about five years in!

Anyhoo... I couldn't find the cheap pizza pans in 10Box, though Country Mart used to have them. Farmer H came home with the fancy non-stick kind, but they were better than nothing. Or a cake carrier. THEN I saw that one was BENT on the edge! Further investigation showed that they were BOTH bent!

Leave it to Farmer H to buy me BENT pizza pans. Or more likely, he dropped the bag, and that's why both of them were bent. I pried and twisted, and got them almost back to normal. The cakes went on without incident, the icing cooperated, and Oreos adorned them more than adequately.

Nothing has been easy this year!

Mrs. HM Endures A Thwarting

No good deed goes unthwarted! At least not around the Hillbilly Mansion during the holidays. Just when Mrs. HM is at her busiest. Okay. That doesn't take much, to be busier than her normal day of a trip to town for scratchers, and then throwing something together to feed Farmer H. But still. I am not doing these Christmas treats for myself.

The Chex Mix betrayed me this year! Oh, it's still very tasty, and mostly up to my high standards. Just a little more difficult to make it turn out that way.

I thought I had all my ingredients ready to go, until I got started. Where I thought I had four cans of whole cashews, one for each batch, in reality I only had TWO, plus two cans of mixed nuts, which were in the exact same color of yellow can. I had bought my mixed nuts in bags, because they were cheaper than the cans. So I had extra mixed nuts, and had to buy more cashews on my next trip to town.

I usually buy the store-brand fake Cheerios. This year, regular Cheerios were on sale, in a giant box, and cheaper than the store brand. I got two boxes, for making four batches of Chex Mix. The first batch was for my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel, who prefers EXTRA Cheerios. They're her favorite ingredient. Her batch came out fine.

The second batch of Chex Mix kicked off with a sliced finger from prying open the box flap on store-brand rice chex. The cut was by the cuticle, and made its anger known every time I put my hands in the dishwater to clean the pans for subsequent batches.

But THEN, upon stirring the regular-Cheerioed batches of Chex Mix, I found that the Cheerios tended to SHRINK! How do they do THAT? I suppose there were not as many on the bottom of the pans as in Mabel's version. Some Cheerios got downright black and hard-chewy! They looked kind of like that thing I found in my fake Honey Nut Cheerios, only they were not rock-hard. Still, you could break a tooth on them! Yes, I tested, but didn't break a tooth. This meant I had to pick out all the burnt Cheerios before putting my gifts in their containers.

You can't mess with the heat or the cooking time on Chex Mix, or the whole batch is off. So I just had to remove those cantankerous Cheerios from the three big pans after each batch was done.

Batch three saw the Worcestershire Sauce acting up when I sprinkled it over the mix before adding the garlic powder and garlic salt. All at once, it shot out over the edge of the pan, onto the cutting block, onto the floor. So there was that mess to clean up.

Batch four was doing just fine, until the last half hour, when I put the three pans back into the oven after stirring. In closing, the oven door caught on the bottom of my fleece jacket that I wear around the house to keep from getting hypothermia in the 70-degree furnace setting. I was almost Hansel-and-Greteled!

I must say, I taste-tested every batch of Chex Mix, and declared them all delicious, and suitable for giving. 

Tomorrow we'll delve into the Oreo Cake issues...

'Tis The Season, And Mrs. HM Delivers!

Seeing how hard The Pony works delivering the mail, I felt it only right to spread a little cheer to our own mailman. I asked The Pony to find out when the day off is for our route. I wanted to make sure that both the regular carrier and the sub got a Christmas treat. Some people who tip are snobby about it, marking their "gift" FOR OUR REGULAR CARRIER. 

I can understand how they want the person who has delivered their mail all year to get the reward. But what about the sub? They cover up to five or six routes, one day per week. They are still working just as hard, but don't get the recognition. Even though The Pony has been a regular for months now, he did not have an assigned route until this week. He could have, but he didn't bid on the routes that came open, because they were not in the area he wanted. So he worked his 8 hours (before the holiday season!) on different routes. Maybe a month, maybe a week.

The Pony said that even on his new assigned route, he figures any "tips" are meant for the guy who did it before The Pony took over. He has told that regular he will give anything he gets to him. That seems only fair. Back when The Pony was a CCA (City Carrier Assistant), he also gave the gifts left out to the regular, unless it was food, or was told it was for him. That year he got some homemade candy, and a gift card.

Anyhoo... The Pony was having trouble getting an answer for me about our regular and sub. The manager said that the regular is out on medical leave, and the sub has been doing the route, even on sub days. Just to be sure, I put the mailman's treat in EmBee two days in a row, since The Pony said the day off was Tuesday.

On Tuesday morning, I had Farmer H put in a bag of Chex Mix, a mini bottle of Sprite, and a sealed envelope (with a cash gift) addressed to Our Mail Carrier Today. With a note inside: "Merry Christmas. I don't think you're our regular carrier, but here's a treat for you. I will put another in tomorrow for the regular carrier." I also apologized for EmBee's svelte measurements, and acknowledged how difficult it must be to shove some items down her throat. Explaining that EmBee was adopted many years ago to replace the regular mailbox that got bashed every weekend by teens with bats.

When Farmer H picked up our mail that evening, there was a note on one of those orange delivery tickets. "Dear Customer, thank you! I am your "regular 'sub' mailman." The regular is out on med leave till further notice."

On Wednesday, I had Farmer H put in TWO bags of Chex Mix, a mini bottle of Coke, and another letter (same amount enclosed). That envelope was addressed TO OUR REGULAR CARRIER. I rubber-banded an index card to it. Telling our regular sub: "Here's another treat and soda for you. Could you please take the other and this letter back to the office, and give it to someone who can get it to the regular?" [The Pony had said the manager told him they would find a way to get it to the regular.]

Farmer H brought another orange delivery ticket note home with the mail: "I sure can! [Smiley Face] Her name is [****] and she will be very thankful! BTW Love the mix!"

I feel really happy that I probably brightened his hectic workday. Twice.

When Farmer H Brings Lunch

Farmer H brought home some chicken pot pie from the Senior Center on Tuesday. He had a container with a full dinner, plus a small container with another serving of chicken pot pie, and another with a slice of blueberry pie. He said he brought the dinner for ME. That they persuaded him to take it, and were giving out extra to other people as well.

Upon further interrogation, Farmer H revealed that he was pretty full, having been served a DOUBLE portion of the chicken pot pie for his lunch. That's because they know he doesn't like beets.

That's a LOT of chicken pot pie. I had some for supper that night, and some the next day. No beets for me, either! I've never tried one, and never will. I didn't like the smell. I couldn't eat the slaw, because Farmer H had been lax in his handling of the leftovers, and beet juice spilled in. Farmer H tried to tell me that the slaw had a purple tint anyway. Nope! I saw that beet juice accumulated in the bottom of that section, in a puddle.

The chicken pot pie was quite tasty, though I prefer mine without the corn and green beans and lima beans and something that might have been squash. The crust was delicious. I enjoy crust, as long as it's not on a dessert pie.

Here's what else Farmer H presented me with this day:

TRASH! The bag he had used to carry home the dinner and the pie. Left it right there on the top of the stove, which was still warm from my last batch of Chex Mix.

When Farmer H came to the kitchen later to get his pie, I asked him if he might have forgotten something. He was standing RIGHT BESIDE that trash, getting a serving spoon out of the drawer to eat his pie.

"No. Why?"

"What's that right next to you, on the stove?"

"Huh."

Farmer H picked it up and turned, took two steps, and threw it away. But not before snorting like I was being petty for not throwing it away FOR him! Like that's my job. A normal person would have thought to throw away the bag right after taking the meal out and putting it in FRIG II.

Any "gift" from Farmer H always comes with a price tag attached. In this case, the assumption that I would be picking up after him.

Farmer H The Magnificent

No. I haven't lost my mind. No need to collectively rev up your twirly temple crazy fingers and cut eyes while bemoaning the unraveling of Mrs. HM's mental faculties. I AM comparing Farmer H to the Johnny Carson character Carnac the Magnificent, a smart-alecky psychic. Farmer H doesn't even need an envelope for his act.

The Pony and I took Farmer H out for a birthday lupper (lunch/supper) on Wednesday at 1:00. Yes, of course Farmer H paid! He had been playing Santa somewhere, and met me in front of The Pony's house. The Pony had gone in to work a half-day on his day off. There has been a situation at the post office, and he feels like helping out.

Anyhoo... we all climbed into A-Cad, and instead of driving in the expected direction, Farmer H started winding along some remote back streets in the opposite direction of Bill-Paying Town, which is where the restaurant is located.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM is an old lady. One who takes medication for her blood pressure. Which has a feature of wringing the moisture out of Mrs. HM's system. I plan my excursions by careful timing, and knowledge of where restrooms are located. Farmer H, not so much. He is content to pull over at the side of a road and take care of business. Not in town, of course. But he has so many acquaintances that I'm pretty sure there are red carpets all over several towns, laid out to guide Farmer H to toilet facilities. 

Anyhoo... it soon became clear to me that Farmer H was pointing out the houses where he had delivered presents for the Senior Center! As if The Pony and I needed this grand tour. The Pony, after all, is slogging along these streets daily. I don't think he needs to revisit certain locations for sightseeing.

When I dared ask why we were meandering along back streets instead of getting right to lupper, Farmer H, who had no doubt eaten at the Senior Center at 11:00, inquired as to my hurry. And not in a nice way.

"I left home at 12:15. We were going to be at lupper by 1:30. But now we're just wasting time, and I'll need a bathroom."

"Oh, you don't have to go to the bathroom!" Said Farmer H the Magnificent, knower of all knowledge. 

Basically, Farmer H is saying (in a quite condescending manner) that he knows my bodily functions better than I do myself. Also, I am NOT psychic where it concerns his plans to meander all willy-nilly about the town, telling The Pony false history of the lead-mining days. I had no idea how long this tour might take.

Am I wrong to be infuriated by this attitude? I think not.

I Told You So. Sort Of.

Mere seconds after that tailgating white pickup truck made a turn and was no longer following me, I saw the aftermath of what havoc today's terrible drivers can wreak.

I was stopped at the light near the Devil's Playground. I looked up to my right, to see if that white pickup truck might have tried a shortcut, having been in such a hurry before I pretend-snapped his photo. I didn't see HIM, but I saw this:

Way up there, past the two poles. An accident had just happened.

Are you starting to see it? Lots of debris in the road.

There's one of the drivers just getting out. Hope he doesn't have neck or back pain!

I presume the car with the driver out was trying to cross over from the Walgreens parking lot that's out of sight to the left of the picture. And the car hidden behind the van was coming out of the Devil's Playground/Pizza Hut area, trying to come down towards the light. It's a hard area to get onto the road. Gotta watch for traffic coming both ways, and also from across the road.

It doesn't help that drivers these days are sorely lacking in common sense, and think THEY always have the right-of-way.

Mrs. HM, The Tricky Trickster, Shakes A Tailgater Off Her Tail Feathers

It's no secret that PEOPLE ARE CRAZY! They don't know how to drive. Or they DO know how to drive, and insist on doing it badly!

Monday, I was headed over to Sis-Town for the dark-meat chicken special at Country Mart. Six legs and six thighs for $8.99! Can't beat that with a stick!

Anyhoo... I was on the road behind the local high school. The speed limit is 35 mph, with a short section where it is 25 mph between 7:00-9:00 a.m., and 2:00-4:00 p.m. Of course I always comply with the speed limit there. I've seen police cars lying in wait for speeders. And more importantly, it's the RIGHT THING TO DO! As one whose bread-and-butter was working in education, I always obey the school zone laws, and take extra caution around school buses. 

The time was 2:20. The speed limit sign clearly visible. Yet a white pickup truck insisted on riding T-Hoe's rumpus. In the 35 mph area, and also the 25 mph area. That is just dangerous! Nobody needs to drive that close. If a deer (or child!) ran out in front of me, that guy did not have enough room between us to stop. He would ram right into T-Hoe, and run over the runner-outer even more!

This is a straight section of roadway, with an ample shoulder. I held my speed. I picked up my phone, and held it up by the rearview mirror, as if I was taking a picture. Let the record show that my eyes were still on the road. I didn't actually open the photo app, or look at the phone screen. Just pretend.

THAT GUY DROPPED HIS SPEED AND STAYED BACK!

In fact, when I turned on the next section of road, where the speed limit is 45 mph, that white pickup truck almost faded out of sight among the hills and curves. I bet he was at least 1/8 of a mile behind me. Never did catch up, until we came into Devil's Playground Town, where the speed limit drops to 30 mph. Even then, White Pickup hung back. Turned a different way.

I'm pretty sure he could see through T-Hoe's back window, and saw the silhouette of my phone against the light coming in the front windshield. SOMEBODY caught a guilty conscience!

The Glutton-Ater Is At It Again

I've been making Chex Mix to give for the holidays. It takes 2.5 hours for each batch. That's a half hour for putting it in the right layers into the three pans, and 2 hours of stirring every 15 minutes. I need to make four batches. Two are done so far.

Saturday, I had left the first batch cooling on the cutting block while I went to town. There was also a paper plate holding two spoons that I use for stirring, and assorted pieces that fell out on the cutting block during several stirs. That's fair game. Even the boys learned that at a young age. If it's on the paper plate, you can eat it.

When I got home, Farmer H was there. He even came out to help carry groceries, once I asked. Back inside, with the house smelling deliciously of fresh Chex Mix, I asked if he'd tried any.

"Nope. I knew I'd be in trouble."

"You didn't even eat what was on the paper plate!"

"I didn't want to take any chances," he said as he walked by and ate the entire handful at once.

"Well, I'm going to put this batch in containers for my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel. There might be a little bit left for you to have some."

Once the Chex Mix was containered, there was a bit left in the pans. Not enough for a full container. I called in Farmer H.

"You can have a little of this that's left."

He went to the counter and came back with a large styrofoam bowl!

"Um. You're not having THAT much! I might like to try it, too, seeing as how I did all the work!"

Farmer H got a smaller bowl, and I dipped out the best parts for him. Meaning he got the Chex and Bugles and nuts and pretzels, while I was left with the crumbs in the bottom. But still, I had a taste.

Sunday, Farmer H was gone when I containered the new batch. I had a little left, that I put in a black plastic container with the previous crumbs I didn't eat. And also into a new black plastic container. Those had held pulled pork in a former life, and became my Hillbilly Tupperware afterwards. They hold about half as much as the containers of Chex Mix that I give away.

Anyhoo... when Farmer H came home, asking if there was any Chex Mix available, I told him he could have the top black container on the counter. It had the best of the leftovers. I'm okay with having crumbs mixed in my container.

Farmer H warmed up his supper of grilled hot dogs that he'd made a couple days ago, dipped up some slaw, and took his black plastic container of Chex Mix to his recliner.

Imagine my shock when Farmer H brought his plate back to the kitchen, and set down the EMPTY container from the Chex Mix.

"You ate ALL of it???"

"Yeah. Well. Uh. You said it was for me."

"I know. It was. But I thought you might eat a little of it, and then set it by your chair to have some tomorrow."

I really should have known better.

I Get By With A Little Help From My Convenience Store Denizens

At the Gas Station Chicken Store on Friday, cashing in some scratchers and buying more, a line started to form behind me. Seriously. Nobody was in that store when I started my transaction, but three people all at once rushed in to pay for gas. I feel bad when that happens. Also, I don't get a chance to chat with my favorite cashier.

Fave tore off the tickets I asked for. She had already scanned in my winners and stapled the receipt to them. So it was just a matter of scanning my new tickets and making change. This was not a day that I came out even, because of my winning amounts. I get a $3 Cash4Life draw ticket every day for The Pony, and that throws things off.

I was expecting to get $2 back. But Fave told me I owed her a dollar. That's quite possible, depending on if I had bought an extra $3 ticket I had not originally planned on. She asked if that sounded right. I said I had planned on getting money back, but I might have miscalculated. So I handed her a dollar, and went on my way. 

Halfway to T-Hoe, the door of the Gas Station Chicken Store opened, and the guy behind me in line stepped out.

"Sweetie? She owes you money. You were right!"

He did not say it in a smarmy way. He was being nice, like how you might holler, "Hey, bud!" to a dude. He was a stocky guy, with reddish hair, wearing a security-type uniform. Not police, not county deputy, not prison. I've seen all those uniforms around here.

Anyhoo... I went back in, and Fave apologized and gave me $3 back. She said what her error had been while ringing it up, but I didn't pay attention, because I was thanking Mr. Security for coming out to get me. 

I stopped short of calling him Sweetie.

The Pony Is A Not-So-Secret Shopper

Let the record show that if there's anything in my Mansion that my boys want, they can have it. What's mine is theirs. Within reason, of course...

When we got back from the casino of Tuesday evening, The Pony carried in my water bottle. Then guzzled down the icy-cold contents. I had told him he could, as long as he took off the lid and didn't drink through the spout.

He plugged in his phone to my charger while he wrote out checks for his house payment and half of the flip house expenses for last month. Then he started looking through the corner cabinets, upper and lower. The little pantry. The big pantry.

"I really don't think we have anything you'd want. I stopped buying a lot of snacks when you moved out. OH! If you're looking for the Little Debbies, they're in FRIG II."

"I was wondering where they were."

The Pony selected a Cosmic Brownie and a Zebra Cake. Put them on the cutting block, and picked up the bag of French Fried Onions that I had gotten for Farmer H.

"Oh, I see you got some of these onion things I told you about. They're really good, just for a snack!"

"No. I saw them in the store, and Dad wanted them for his green beans like he had at the Senior Center. I can't let you have those."

Then he walked over to where I'd set a 12-pack of toilet paper along the kitchen wall behind my chair, which I had not yet put away in the hall closet. 

"Hm. I think I need two rolls. I'm not going to the store just yet."

"Hey! That isn't free, you know! The price is putting the rest of it away in the closet."

"I can do that."

"Do you need a bag to carry your stuff home?"

"That would be great."

So off The Pony went, a plastic bag of "groceries" on his arm, and a phone charge long enough to get him home without incident.

The Big Dipper Strikes Again

I spent Thursday morning cooking a pan of green beans. It's not like I went out and picked them out of a garden I had lovingly tended all summer. I just opened two cans. But before that, I cut up some thick bacon and simmered it in the bottom of the pan. Then I added a diced onion. And the green beans. Ground some black pepper in it. They had to cook for an hour and a half, with me checking on them. I figured we could have them for a couple of days, at least.

Thursday evening we had country-fried steak sandwiches. They were frozen, without the gravy, but still pretty good on a bun with pickles and onions. Nice and crispy. For once, I didn't set out a plate for Farmer H, because I was busy slicing the onion when I called him to the kitchen. But I already had a slotted spoon laid out, since we know Farmer H does not like juice. His dill pickle slices were draining on a paper towel on the cutting block. Two slices of pepper jack cheese next to them. I set the plate of onion slices beside them. I even put out his buns, balancing them on the side of the onion-slice plate.

When I had called Farmer H to the kitchen, I asked if he was having his green beans on the plate, or in a bowl. He said "Probably a bowl." So I didn't set one out...

SWEET GUMMI MARY! When I turned around, I saw that Farmer H had taken a LARGE styrofoam bowl, and filled it with green beans and bacon. While I was looking into the pan to see if any green beans were left, Farmer H busied himself building his sandwich. ON THE ONION PLATE! I suppose he was just going to walk off with the entire onion.

"Hey! Why didn't you get a plate?"

"I thought this one would work. But I'll get a fancy one if you want."

"You ALWAYS get one of the thick paper plates. You never use the plain white ones that I use for slicing."

"Whatever."

I took half a small styrofoam bowl of green beans. That left almost as much as Farmer H had in his large bowl. So it looks like Farmer H will be having green beans the second night, and I won't.

It's not that I begrudge Farmer H an extra-large portion of green beans because I want them. It's the fact that I plan a certain amount of meals out of the food I prepare, so I don't have to cook something entirely different. When he takes over half the first night (even worse than Mr. Grant taking half the Veal Prince Orloff at Mary's dinner party!), I have to come up with a new dish sooner than I had anticipated.

Next time, I might be smart enough to put everything on the plate and in the bowl for him. Unless that has been his evil plan all along...

Convenience Store Parking Lot: The New Demolition Derby

What in the NOT-HEAVEN is wrong with people these days??? I know. Such a broad topic. We'll have to limit responses to the sub-topic of driving on convenience store parking lots.

As you know, Mrs. HM has excessive experience in convenience store parking lots. I am on at least two of them per day. It's only been the last couple of years that I've had to deal with this problem. 

PEOPLE ARE BAT-EXCREMENT CRAZY!

It happened to me TWICE on Monday, at the Sis-Town Casey's. I was parked on the right side of the handicap stripes leading to the sidewalk ramp. You know, just in a row of spaces that line the front of the store. Not in the handicap space, which was on the other side of the striped walkway. I had nothing parked directly to my left. I could see down the row of parked cars. I could see the driving lane behind them. I could see the pumps.

Nothing was coming either way. I started backing up to leave my space. T-Hoe was halfway out of that parking space when a car pulled onto the lot, down at the far left end. I continued backing. That car kept coming! And whizzed around T-Hoe's back bumper! I guess it was just cutting through the lot to avoid the light. 

Of course I had to jam on my brakes to avoid a collision with the car that did not stop. Once it was past, I again looked both ways, and began moving again to get out of my parking space. SWEET GUMMI MARY! A car pulled in from the other side of the lot, from whence the other car had exited. AND KEPT COMING! Even though I was in motion, that new car just kept driving at me, and I once again had to put on the brakes, while this car swerved out and around T-Hoe.

Is it just me? I seem to remember when a moving vehicle had the right-of-way. If you came tooling along and there was a car backing out, you'd stop! So you wouldn't hit them! Such a novel idea!

It's like drivers these days WANT to have a collision!

Because if you keep going and run into a moving car, that is like a pre-meditated RAMMING! You saw them moving, and chose to continue, which would result in you hitting them unless they jam on their brakes.

I might need to put seatbelts and airbags in the product produced at my proposed handbasket factory!

I Won The War, But The Battle Continues

On the second night of bean-dipping, I stood at the counter as Farmer H dipped his bowl of beans from the big pot on the stove. He used the actual dipper. Then laid it back on the paper plate where I had it resting. The dipper was half full of beans. Anybody with common sense knows that when you're finished with dipping, you knock the handle of the dipper on the top edge of the pot, so anything remaining in the dipper falls back into the pot. But not Farmer H.

On the third night of bean-dipping, I had transferred the remaining beans to Chinese Tupperware containers the previous evening. All I had to do was dump one into a regular saucepan to warm up. With the beans being in a smaller pan, dipping required two hands. It was not like a heavy pot which would remain stationary while dipping.

"You can set your bowl here on the counter while you dip. Don't be chasing the pan around on the stove while you're trying to dip. And don't think you can hold it there with your stomach. It's hot."

A normal person with common sense would have, perhaps, picked up the saucepan of beans by the handle, held it over the bowl while tilted slightly, and dipped those beans into the bowl. Or perhaps scooted the bowl against the edge of the stove, with no room for anything to fall in the crack between the counter, and held the pan stationary while dipping the beans into the bowl.

NOPE! Not abnormal, common-senseless Farmer H!

Farmer H held the handle of the saucepan while filling the dipper with beans. Then picked up his bowl and held it beside the pan, pouring in his dipper of beans. Then he set the bowl back down. Held the handle and dipped again. Picked up the bowl. Poured the beans in. Etc. Until his bowl was towering with beans. You'd think he was a government worker, being paid an hourly wage to dip beans!

At least Farmer H noticed me watching him, and when finished, only left about 1/8 of the dipper full of beans when he set it on the paper plate. Baby steps...

The Hillmomba Bean Spoon Wars

The first night we were about to partake of the most delicious pot of beans I've ever concocted, there was a minor skirmish over the serving method. Farmer H takes his food to his recliner to watch TV, and I usually wait a couple hours, what with my nocturnal schedule seeing me have breakfast at noon:30.

I set everything out that Farmer H would need. The plate, the bowl, the spoon, the knife. 

I had his diced onions ready, and the diced Mild Banana Pepper Rings. The corn muffins were loosened in the muffin pan. The butter had been set out to soften. The dipper was laid beside the pan for ladling beans into the bowl.

I went out of the way, to the table and HIPPIE, to allow Farmer H free movement between cutting block and stove. Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed him buttering his corn muffins. Crumbling one into the bottom of the bowl, and adding onions and peppers. After he had dipped his beans, and was getting his soda out of FRIG II, I went to move the pan and put the lid on until I was ready for supper.

WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN!!!

"Uh. Why is the dipper still clean?"

"I didn't use it."

"How did you get your beans out?"

"With the spoon that was laying there."

"You might as well have used one of those flat boards for stirring paint! How can you dip beans with a spoon like that?"

"It worked fine for me."

"Yeah. Because all you got was beans and ham, and not any juice! Just like your towering bowl of soup."

"I ain't got a towering bowl of soup. I have beans and ham."

Indeed. Higher than the sides of the bowl, piled up in the middle like the mashed potato mountain in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It's not so much that I begrudge Farmer H his ham and beans without juice. I actually LIKE the juice, so more for me. It gets thicker every time I warm them. 

It's just the idea of somebody [FARMER H] thinking it's normal to dip ham and beans out of a pan with a flat spoon that I used for stirring. The amount of beans in Farmer H's bowl would have taken about 3 dippers. I have no idea how many flat spoons that would be. I'm surprised Farmer H's arm was not in a sling from the extra effort.

Seriously. Which utensil would a normal person choose to dip beans out of a large pot? I suppose I should be thankful that I didn't catch Farmer H using that blue spoon to EAT from his bowl of beans.

To Put It Mildly, I Feel Cheated

I thawed out the Thanksgiving ham bone to make a big pot of beans on Friday. Great Northern beans, soaked overnight, simmered for two hours with a spoonful of minced garlic, a little ground black pepper, and three little Sweet Cherry Peppers and some of their juice. 

SWEET GUMMI MARY! Those are some of the best beans I've ever made!

When we have beans, Farmer H and I like to dice an onion to add, along with some Mild Banana Pepper Rings, which I also dice. And of course some corn muffins, part of which we crumble into our bowl of beans. I made the beans before I went to town. When looking for the Mild Banana Pepper Rings, I noticed we had none. So I got some in 10Box as I was getting bananas.

I couldn't find my regular jar, which is tall and fat. But they had a tall and thin jar. I started to get two, but then I saw a squatty jar of the same amount, but the store brand. It was about 40 cents cheaper. I decided to get one of each, to see if we liked the store brand. I knew we'd go through both jars. That pot of beans was enough to last us over three meals.

Everything was ready as I prepared to slice the peppers. I took the store brand and opened the lid. WAIT A MINUTE! I didn't get that WHOOSH sound from the vacuum seal. That lid just turned like it had been in FRIG II for a week, already opened. I saw the problem right away. A piece of a pepper ring had been stuck between the glass and the lid. It was dried out and stuck on the outside of the jar. Just a few millimeters of it. But noticeable, if I had inspected the jar for such an anomaly before putting it in my cart. I've never had such a problem, so that never entered my mind.

"Hey! This jar of peppers didn't have the vacuum seal! Do you think we should take a chance on eating them? It's not like somebody tampered with it. There was a piece of pepper stuck between the lid and the jar."

"It's probably okay."

"Are you sure? What about botulism? That jar wasn't sealed! Any kind of bacteria might have gotten in. I have another jar we can use."

"Well. Maybe."

"Okay. I'm not using it. I'll get another jar in a day or two. We'll use the other one now."

You never know. I didn't feel like dying over a couple of dollars of peppers.

Pies Lie!

Farmer H wanted a coconut cream pie, after enjoying the Marie Callender's frozen (and crunchy!) banana cream pie, and the chocolate silk pie. Of course I looked for it when I was in 10Box, where I bought the others for Thanksgiving.

You might recall that I did not like the banana cream pie, because it had regular crust, of which I am not a fan. The chocolate silk pie had a dark cookie-crumb crust. It was delicious. So I looked closely at the box of the coconut cream pie. It showed a graham cracker crust. I swear that's what it looked like to me. I held both the banana cream and the coconut cream box in my hand at the freezer case, comparing.

When I got it home, I opened up the coconut cream pie and put it in FRIG II to thaw for Farmer H. I didn't want him crunching this one! It was in the foil pie pan, with a clear plastic lid, and wrapped in clear plastic, which I left on. Farmer H went to bingo, and didn't have pie that night. For whatever reasons, he didn't have pie for several nights, either eating a Little Debbie Zebra Cake, or saying he was full from a big lunch and supper.

A couple nights ago, I decided I would be the first one to cut into that coconut cream pie. I got it out of FRIG II, my paper plate and knife and fork all ready. I took off the clear plastic wrap, and the clear plastic lid, and picked up the knife, and 

SAW A REGULAR CRUST!!!

I cry shenanigans! I swear that crust was graham cracker on the box picture! Unfortunately, I had already sent the box out in the trash bag that Farmer H drove up to the dumpster the day after I brought the pie home. Of course I was disappointed. I put down the knife, lidded the pie again, and put it back in FRIG II. 

I consulted my estranged BFF Google, for pictures of the Marie Callender's frozen pie boxes. There's definitely a difference in the banana cream crust and the coconut cream crust. Especially when you look at the crust under the pie, which is what I did. Closer inspection of the back edge of the crust makes it look more like a regular type crust. I will not be fooled again!

Next time, I'm getting the chocolate silk pie!

Mrs. HM Is Gettin' Snippy With It

Remember  when I was bemoaning the lack of a quality clipper to trim my gal-hooves? Because my silver toenail clipper couldn't open its jaws wide enough to chomp my left pinky-toenail? Well. My replacement has arrived! 

Encased in a case! Isn't that cute? No, it's not illuminated by a ray of light from the not-Not-Heavens. Just the morning [noon:50-ish] light coming in after my breakfast of charred fake honey nut cheerios.

It came with accessories! The picture is deceiving. All pieces fit into that tin. Not sure what the nail file is supposed to hook onto, but I don't file my toenails anyway! That little rubber thingy is a MUZZLE for my clippers, heh, heh. Lest he nip something on the way to his clipping duties. Which he performs with exemplary skill! 

The clippers are not as long as I presumed. About 4-inch handles, barely longer than my other clippers, but they are easy to grip and squeeze. They can't rotate out of position. And those jaws are wide enough for my thick hoofy pinky-toenails.

The trimming was a rousing success. I even lopped off a section of the great-toe nail. The not-so-little piggy who went to market.

There's no brand name, so I can't recommend them. I just found those clippers on Amazon, for under $20. I am quite satisfied with my new gadget.

The Incredible Inconsiderateness Of Farmer H's Incommunicado-atory Lifestyle

I will stop short of saying that Farmer H treats me like a mushroom. He may keep me in the dark, but he does not feed me rumpus excretions. Because, you see, that would require EFFORT from him, to feed me anything.

Farmer H used to tell teen HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son) and tween Little Future Veteran a standard answer when they asked a question he didn't want to deal with. "That's on a need-to-know basis, and you don't need to know." I think that stems from the King of Everything wanting to keep his subjects ignorant of his comings and goings and doings.

On Wednesday, I knew Farmer H was going to play bingo that night. He said he wasn't coming home before bingo time. So I went about my business, not expecting to see him until time to watch The Amazing Race.

As I was getting in the shower around 2:00, I heard all three dogs barking their fool heads off while running across the front yard. Just like when they follow Farmer H on the Gator, or in SilverRedO. I figured he had once again changed his plans, and come home to drop off some junk or tools, and would come in to shower or have a recliner nap before bingo. Yet when I got out, Farmer H was not in the house. I presumed he was over on Shackytown Boulevard, or at the BARn or Freight Container Garage. The dogs did not come meet me for their pre-town snack.

Driving down the gravel road in front of the BARn, I saw a car! What in the NOT-HEAVEN? Why was there a strange black small sedan parked in front of our BARn??? 

I immediately called Farmer H.

"Why is there a strange small black sedan parked in front of our BARn?"

"Oh. That's my old buddy I did the sewer pipe for. He's getting some hay."

"Uh. Don't you think maybe you should have told me? I thought it was somebody breaking in."

"No. I knew he was coming."

"Don't you think you should have told me? I'm an old lady, here by myself."

"Well, I didn't know if you'd still be there when he got there."

"Don't you think you should have told me? In case I saw a car driving across our yard from the driveway to the BARn?"

"I didn't think you'd see him."

"DON'T YOU THINK YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME?"

"I guess maybe I should have told you..."

So hard to make Farmer H see the error of his ways!

A New Case Of Scarlett Leaver, Which Has Spread To Jack

Just when you think the turmoil in the Mansion's pet department has been resolved, a new case rears its bouncy paws...

As I returned home from town on Monday, I met Farmer H in SilverRedO about halfway between the Mansion and Mailbox Row. I was not surprised, because he had said he was leaving at 4:00 to go to the auction. What DID surprise me was the sight of Scarlett and Jack running along behind him!

"Hey! Why are these dogs here?"

"They sometimes follow me in the mornings when I leave. I guess they're doing it again now. They'll follow you home."

"I HOPE!"

Let's not forget that Scarlett ADORES Farmer H. Me, not so much. Farmer H drove on towards Mailbox Row, and I yelled out the window at the dogs.

"SCARLETT! JACK! Come on! Let's go get a TREAT!"

As I started towards home, I saw Scarlett in my mirror, trotting a few steps after SilverRedO which contained the object of her ADORATION. She stopped. Looked over her shoulder at me. Then back towards SilverRedO. By then I was crossing the Great Chasm, the ditch that washes across a hilly curve when we have a heavy rain. I lost sight of Scarlett. I couldn't see my little Jack. I was worried that they were both still headed after Farmer H. I looked out the window, and there was little Jack! He had been running along beside me the whole time. He loves me like an Oscar audience mis-quotedly really loves Sally Field.

Once I got to the top of Farmer H and Buddy's Badly-Blacktopped Hill, and gained some speed, I saw Scarlett rushing up behind me. Those dogs are fast! Farmer H said later that he clocked Scarlett at 25 mph.

Anyhoo... we all arrived home about the same time. The dogs got a petting and their treat. I am quite nervous about this new turn of events. Scarlett has no business running after our cars. She did it to me several days earlier, but just to the end of our second property next to the BARn field. Jack and Copper Jack stayed in our front yard/field as usual, looking after Scarlett like she was crazy.

I suppose the only good part is that if Jack runs with Scarlett, they will eventually return home. UNLESS somebody snatches up Scarlett, because she's a looker, and they have no idea how crazy she is!

If the weather wasn't so chilly, I would have Farmer H get a SuperSoaker water gun, and spray them in the face when they chase after him, while gruffly shouting NO! BAD DOG!

The only other alternative is shock collar training. It broke my little Jack of chasing the neighbor's horses. I think this chasing behavior stems from Farmer H driving SilverRedO over to the BARn, or his Freight Container Garage, and the dogs run along behind him. So they're never quite sure how far he is going when he takes off in SilverRedO.

No Good Deed Goes UnNagged

I found the sausages Farmer H likes while I was in Save A Lot on Monday. They had both the flat patties, in a pack of four, and the bratwursts, in a pack of five, of which I got two. They were marked as part of the 5 for $25 deal, so I looked around for two more items. Settled on the Oberle Cheese, which I give to HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son) and The Veteran every year for Christmas.

Farmer H said he would grill the flat patties on Tuesday evening for supper. I was prepared to freeze them, like the bratwursts, until better weather, since they were coming up on the Sell By date in two days. Farmer H said no, he wanted to grill. 

Well. The weather turned colder in the afternoon, unpredicted by the TV meteorologists. It was 41 when I got home at 3:30, and who knows what temp when Farmer H went out at 5:30 to light up GassyG Jr. I put some frozen crinkle fries in the oven. Farmer H was back inside within 20 minutes.

"I THINK they're probably done..."

That's a red flag bigger than a bullfighter's cape! When he took them out of FRIG II, I had told Farmer H to smash the patties.

"See how plump they are? They will cook up even more plump. They'll look like meatballs! Use the bottom of that pizza pan, and flatten them so they'll fit the buns."

Of course Farmer H used the palms of his hands over the plastic wrap. Not really effective at flattening the patties. Of course I told him that palms were not in my instructions. Meanwhile, back to the "finished" product...

"I'm sure they're not done!"

"Well. I wasn't going to poke them with a fork and let out the juice."

Farmer H set the tray of patties on the stovetop while I got out the fries.

"Look! They're oozing pink liquid! They are NOT done! I'm not eating raw pork!"

"We'll just put them in the microwave."

"You'll have to use a real plate. Because of all the juice that's going to come out."

Farmer H proceeded to STAB A FORK into the middle of each patty to put it on the plate! Of course the juices bubbled out. 

Anyhoo... the sausage patties were finished in the microwave. They were quite thick in the middle, and didn't lie flat on the bun. More juices surged out upon biting into them, but they were done. The taste was good, and Farmer H had gotten a little bit of char on the outside. I had a bit left over that will become a treat for Jack and Scarlett on Wednesday.

Life would be so much simpler if Farmer H would just listen to me, and actually take my advice!

I Wonder If He Really Worked There

I was trying to get my fake Honey Nut Cheerios off the top shelf in Save A Lot on Monday. A few cart-lengths ahead was the Little Debbie Snack Cake display. It's on the end of the aisle. Kind of in a U shape. So there were boxes of cakes on my side, on the end, and around on the other side. I was planning to get a box of the Zebra Cakes for Farmer H once I accomplished my cereal task. But then a guy came around the end, and proceeded to take a swig of Red Bull from a can that was sitting on the shelf next to a rag or piece of clothing.

What in the NOT-HEAVEN? I've never seen employees in there consuming drinks in the workplace. I assume they have a break room for that. And this guy was just leaving his on the shelf! Where it could be tampered with! Or spilled.

Also, The Guy was not wearing a red vest. The Save A Lot employees always have on a red vest. Whether stocking shelves or cashiering or bringing in carts. The Guy was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt or sweater. Not that I expected him to be in a three-piece suit. He wasn't slovenly. Didn't look like he just crawled out of a dumpster. He just didn't look like he was an employee.

The Guy went back around the end of the aisle to the other side. I assumed he was the Little Debbie distributor, stocking his shelf. Although I didn't see any cart or box of merchandise for him to pull product out of. I just bypassed that area and went on about my shopping. I'll be danged if The Guy didn't reappear at the other end of the store, when I was trying to balance some cashews (for Chex Mix) and salsa jars (for nachos) in the child seat of my cart.

I still haven't figured out what was with The Guy. He appeared to be just walking around, doing nothing. Except drinking a Red Bull he had stashed on the Little Debbie shelf.

Hot From Hillmomba's Gossip Column: Jack Is Sleeping With Scarlett!

Let the record show that Jack has never been a "house" dog. He eschews sleeping in a house, preferring instead a scratched-out gravel hollow under the Gator in warm weather, and a hole burrowed into haybales in the cold. Even though we have three doghouses on the porch, he has never used one.

My Dear Departed Juno had her special house just outside the kitchen door. Neither Jack nor Scarlett show any interest in it. Scarlett will sometimes scratch and lie on the porch just outside the door, but won't go into the doghouse. I've told Farmer H many times that he needs to tip that house over, and sweep the old cedar shavings off the back porch. Then fill it with fresh shavings to see if Jack or Scarlett might be interested in it. I'm sure that as it is, Juno's smell is still in it. She had bouts of dripping pee during her last few months, and moved herself around to the end of the Mansion into one of those two doghouses.

Farmer H DID put new cedar shavings in both of the doghouses on the end porch, on the BARn side of the Mansion. He had told me that once the weather cooled off, he thought Scarlett was sleeping in one, because she came from that end of the Mansion in the mornings when he went out to feed the dogs. I was surprised, because for so long Scarlett refused to go in a doghouse. Even during rain, when she was hooked to her yard cable to prevent her from running off again.

Imagine my surprise last week when Farmer H told me that Jack was sleeping in the doghouse with Scarlett! I didn't believe him. Yet one chilly rainy day as I left for town, both dogs came galloping around from the front porch, with sweet cedar shavings clinging to their fur!

This really makes me happy, to think that they are cuddling together in the same doghouse. Jack has been Scarlett's constant shadow since she was released from the cable full-time to roam the countryside. Scarlett is a bit indifferent to Jack, but I've caught her romping with him like an actual DOG on several occasions. And a few days ago, when he wasn't there on the side porch when I got back from town, she ran around between the kitchen door and the front porch, looking for him so he wouldn't miss his treat.

I am so glad we took in Scarlett, so Jack can have a companion. Plus the fact that she's no longer confined to a wire kennel where she can barely stand up for 12 hours a day. 

Hillmomba's Hooligans Hurl Again

It's been a minute, but Hillmomba's hooligans are at it again, chucking furniture all willy-nilly about the countryside. I guess common littering is too tame for them, although there are still plenty of McDonald's bags and glass beer bottles that say differently.

On the way home from town Tuesday, I turned off the lettered highway, onto our blacktop county road, and saw THIS within 100 feet:

They were barely off the main road! They were visible to traffic driving along that lettered highway. Not even trying to be secretive!

That's a COUCH! Might not look like it from this angle, but it's an upside down sofa. A divan driven to the country and tossed barely off the driving surface. You know that one person couldn't do that. It took at least two ne'er-do-wells to dump their unwanted furniture on the side of a public thoroughfare. 

I really need to get back to work on my proposed handbasket factory. Society is breaking down faster than I had anticipated.

Hazardous Conditions In Hillmomba

I always have to be on my toes while sitting on my ample rumpus driving T-Hoe to town. You never know what hazards you might encounter. Like on Friday, approaching the Gas Station Chicken Store. I was coming from the other direction, returning from School-Turn Town along the back road by the lake. As I rolled down the hill in front of Casey's, approaching the light, something bright caught my eye.

Orange hazard cones! Huh. What in the NOT-HEAVEN? Had there been a car fire? Had a truck lost load? I couldn't turn and get a good look while I was driving. The light was green. So I made my right turn, and another immediate right turn onto the parking lot. 

Hey! There were more orange cones around the gas pumps. Didn't look like a fire had happened. There was also a white utility-type work truck. I didn't read the writing on the side, as I was heading around the pumps to my favorite parking space.

Wait a minute! I had to detour around some orange cones. Once parked, I got a picture:

That's a giant manhole! Technically, it's the cover off one of the underground gas tanks. Not sure how you work on that. I did not consult the spewer of all knowledge, Farmer H. He went to a play at the local junior college to watch The Veteran's daughter in "Meet Me in St. Louis."

I wonder if there was a problem between the tank and one of the gas pumps. Does a repairman have to go down inside the tank??? Surely not. The fumes! The fumes! But why would there be such a big opening? The hose to fill up the tank goes into a smaller hole. No need to remove the giant cover.

Even Mrs. HM could fall into that enormous opening! I'd hate to think of The Pony parking off by the moat, walking the mail inside, thumbing through the envelopes and not paying attention! I will consult Farmer H when he has time out of his busy schedule.

The Soup Built By Spud-Challenged Mrs. HM

Since I couldn't find canned sliced potatoes, I was left to my own devices for filling my cauldron of vegetable beef soup. I had my other chosen ingredients. I did not want to leave out potatoes. But neither did I want to peel and cut up actual potatoes and cook them to the right texture for my soup. So I grabbed the next best thing: frozen hash browns.

I don't make my soup from scratch. What do you think I am, some fancy chef? Nope. I want something that's easy, yet tastes good. I'd like to say that I've perfected my soup, but I can't give you the recipe, because it's a little different every time. 

It starts with a packet of dried soup mix. I use Bear Creek Vegetable Beef. The package says all you have to do is add 8 cups of water, whisk in the powdered mix, bring to a boil, and simmer 15 minutes. Huh. That would be some mighty weak soup! Full of liquid! As you know, Farmer H does not like liquid in his soup! Here's a picture of the finished product. I'll tell you below what I added to make it this hearty.

That's not the whole pot of soup. Just what I've put in a saucepan to warm for supper. My giant cauldron provides about 12-14 bowls of soup. We eat it several days until we're tired of it, then into the freezer it goes. Farmer H dips the solids into his bowl. I actually LIKE the "juice," and put crackers in mine. We have it with some garlic toast that I buy frozen. Sometimes I have a slice of cheddar cheese on the side.

Once I get the packet of soup mix simmering, I add my ingredients. This time I used two pounds of browned hamburger. Two cans of diced tomatoes with garlic. Then a can of green beans, two cans of sliced carrots, about a cup of frozen peas, two paper plates of hash browns, and half a serving spoon of minced garlic. I am not a measurer. That's just the solids.

The liquids I put in were Worcestershire sauce, ketchup, steak sauce, Heinz 57, and honey barbecue sauce. I just shook them in until it felt right. Tasted after about five minutes of simmering. Added some ground black pepper, but wish I'd added more. We pepper it as we dip it our bowls.

It is DELICIOUS!

Here are the hash browns I used. Just the generic store brand.

I still have some left over to use in another creation as I get the inspiration. Maybe in a pot pie of some sort later on. Inside the bag, the hash browns look like this:

They're just little diced potato cubes, frozen. Handy to add to other dishes. I'm pretty sure I'm not the first person to add these versatile taters to soup!

The Pony Gifts Us With A Christmas Monkey Wrench

Genius is coming for Christmas! Plans were solidified on Tuesday evening. The days he will arrive, attend the party of my sister the ex-mayor's wife, show up at the Mansion for dinner, and partake of the annual holiday casino trip.

I informed The Pony on Wednesday morning. Who tossed a little monkey wrench into the plans. We know that The Pony has to work on Christmas Eve. Late. But usually makes it to Sis's soiree. He's off Christmas Day. Since Tuesday is his regular day off, it fit right in for the casino trip before Genius departs for Pittsburgh. Not anymore!

The Pony is getting his own route. He's been a regular for quite some time now, but has not bid on specific routes because he does not like the vehicle assigned to it, or the businesses to which it delivers, or the general locale. So he's been earning regular pay, but taking routes that are assigned to him. Sometimes for weeks, sometimes days.

Anyhoo... The Pony bid on a route that suits his preferences, and as the unassigned regular with most seniority, will most likely be awarded that route permanently. It's virtually a done deal, but without a specific date when it is officially on the books. The catch is... the day off is WEDNESDAY.  

The Pony is pretty sure Wednesday will be his official weekly day off by the time Christmas gets here. Which presents a dilemma. Go on the casino trip without The Pony. Or see if Genius can delay his departure by one day.

I think we can get it worked out over the next month. Poor Pony missed the casino trip two years ago, due to work. He was able to go last year, and we all had a great time. Genius would like some down time once he gets back, to relax for the remainder of his vacation. It's a difficult decision. I imagine there will be several discussions by text, with me being the middlewoman.

The Further Transgressions Of Farmer H

Sometimes, Farmer H annoys me. Yes. I see you all, turning to each other, shrugging, palms to the sky, muttering, "Who woulda thought..."

I can hold in my peevishness for a little while. It takes a lot of effort. And then my nerves of steel snap like Young Future Mrs. HM's ulna when she took a tumble roller-skating on the sidewalk around her grandpa's fireplace.

"WHY DON'T YOU JUST LICK THE BOWL!!!"

Farmer H is a clinker. I shudder every time I serve something that is eaten in a bowl, using a spoon. Every single bite, Farmer H clinks the metal spoon against the glass bowl. Oh, and he eats with a serving spoon. So it's an extra-loud clink. This time, he was eating my vegetable beef soup. That clink carried, unmolested, not even muffled by the couch cushions and carpet, from recliner to the kitchen table, where I was listening to music while scratching lottery tickets, until Spotify went down.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Is it really necessary to clink each dip of the spoon? He sounded like he was trying to get a ballroom packed with wedding guests to pay attention for a toast. It was bad enough when he had just sat down, with a bowl full of soup. As you well know, it was solid soup. Though not a towering bowl. THEN, near the end, Farmer H was scraping the remaining particles of soup off the side, with the vigor required to remove barnacles from a ship's hull.

I might have been able to deal with this transgression, had Farmer H not already used up my good will (granted, it's about the size of a mustard seed, and could be worn in a see-through heart-shaped charm like the one I had in grade school) a few days earlier with his shenanigans of entitledness.

I came home Monday to find that Farmer H had poured his own drink during my absence, using MY Shasta Diet Cola from the second shelf of FRIG II. Farmer H's sodas are on the top shelf. Always have been. His Diet Mountain Dews, and this past week's Diet Cokes which he bought instead. Along with a can of Shasta Diet Cola that I put there for when he has a Wild Turkey. Never mind that our Shasta Diet Colas are identical. It's the principle, dang it! I want MY soda from my shelf. Not to reach into an empty space, and have to look around for it. He has his soda on his shelf. When pressed on the reason for his decision, Farmer H replied,

"I just took one when I saw it."

Oh, but that's not all! To accompany his cocktail, Farmer H had an individual bag of chips. He chose the plain chips with ridges. They're his favorite. I always leave them for him in the multi-pack of assorted chips. However... Farmer H opened the new multi-pack and removed his bag of chips. When there was one left from the old multi-pack with an expiration date of December 4. It is only logical to use the older chips first. But no. Farmer H was entitled to the NEW chips.

"I figure I should be able to eat anything in my own house."

Yes. Anything thought of, put on a list, searched for on a shelf, purchased, bagged, loaded, unloaded, carried in, and put away by Mrs. HM.

The King of the Castle rules the Mansion. Mrs. HM just lives there out of his good graces.