The Non(Common)Sensical Farmer H

Saturday evening, I was scratching my scratchers around 5:00, debating on when to start warming Farmer H's supper. He is usually home from his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2) activities by then. Sometimes earlier, if business is slow, or if there's a NASCAR race he plans to watch. 

His supper was going to be warmed-up chicken and dumplings from the night before. The quick kind I make with flour tortillas boiled for 5 minutes in chicken broth and cream of chicken soup (minced garlic, black pepper, and butter added), then chicken stirred in when it's done. Farmer H LOVES it!

Anyhoo... I didn't want to start too soon, because that meal sticks to the pan. I waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally, at 6:15, I got out the chicken and dumplings, and put them in a pan. Turned on the burner to the lowest setting. That would take about 20 minutes to heat up, from being in FRIG II.

Could I have sent a text to Farmer H asking where he was? Yes. But the day before, I'd sent a text telling him that I put his Diet Mountain Dews out of T-Hoe's rear and onto the chair on the side porch... and he walked right by them. Said he never got my text. He doesn't like me to call, because sometimes he's waiting on a call (or ON a call) with a government agency that must approve certain sales.

You'd think that if a man is going to be late for supper, he'd let the supper-preparer know.

Farmer H walked in at 6:30.

"Did you get lost on your way home?"

"No. There was people kept coming in, HM. So I wasn't going to close when I had customers!"

"Too bad there's not something like a cell phone you could use to notify me."

"Well. You say I always call at the wrong time."

"You DO. If I'm driving or in the store, I won't answer. But you could leave a text. Or call back. That's a long time to be late. I was trying to figure out your supper. It's probably ready now."

"My phone has been acting up. I still ain't got that text you sent yesterday."

Yeah, sure. Always an excuse. A woman should just expect her man to get there when he gets there, I suppose, with supper ready to eat.

It will come as no surprise that when Farmer H dipped his dumplings from the pan into his bowl, he once again held the bowl in his left hand while standing at the stove, and rooted around in the pan with a spoon in his right hand. 

"There you go again. If you were SMART, which I'm pretty sure you're not... you'd set that bowl on the stove, hold the pan above it with one hand, and spoon the dumplings over the side with the spoon in the other hand."

"You just don't like it because I'm not doing it YOUR way!"

"Just saying, you can chase that pan around for five minutes trying to stop it moving with your belly. Or you can hold it with your other hand while you dip out your food."

The fact that common sense so often eludes Farmer H is a mystery to me.