No Thanks From The Thankless

In the tradition of shooting the messenger, on Tuesday evening, Farmer H poisoned the cook. Poisoned any good will remaining, anyway. 

At the end of our Thanksgiving leftovers, I mentioned that there was bacon left from the roasting of the vegetables. And that I had a can of biscuits in FRIG II that needed to be cooked before they exploded and put us in need of a FRIG III. Farmer H perked up.

"Oh. I can have eggs and bacon and biscuits for supper!"

"Yes. If I make the eggs, they will be scrambled. I am no good at frying eggs."

"I can do that."

Of course I got everything else ready for Farmer H. I put the biscuits in the oven, intending to watch over them as he fried his eggs. I was pretty sure he could not do both. I also put his already-cooked bacon on foil, on a pizza pan, to slide into the oven as the biscuits neared their done-ness. I had the skillet set out, and the bottle of vegetable oil, and a spatula, and a plate with fork and knife, plus three eggs on a paper plate with a rim and coating that grease won't seep through.

I called Farmer H to the kitchen.

"You can start your eggs when you're ready. The biscuits cook for 13-17 minutes. They've been in for five. I will check them and move them to the lower shelf when I come back, and put in your bacon to warm. There are your eggs. Put the shells back on that plate, and you can toss them off the porch."

With that, I took a quick bathroom break. I came back to the kitchen to see that Farmer H had put his bacon off the pizza pan, and onto the back burner of the stove, still on the foil.

"What are you doing? I had that all ready for the oven!"

"I put my bacon back there to warm up."

"That's what the pan was for, to slide into the oven."

"Huh. Well. This works."

"If you think so. Not sure how fast that is going to warm. What about the biscuits? I can't see them."

Farmer H opened the oven.

"Huh. It doesn't look like they're cooking. They're pale. I told you the oven doesn't work right."

"The oven is heating from the bottom. The biscuits are fine. They've been in there for... 14 minutes."

"Exactly. And they don't look done."

"THIS IS WHY I HATE TO DO ANYTHING! YOU ARE ALWAYS BOSSING ME!"

With that, I left Farmer H to his own devices. Not another word from me to boss him around! I sat down at HIPPIE and started computing. I heard grease sizzling. The oven opening and closing. Seems that Farmer H thought it best to move those biscuits down to the bottom of the oven where it was heating, and put the bacon in there, too.

When Farmer H finally buttered his biscuits and took his plate to the living room, I saw that he had left the skillet of grease on the hot burner, with the metal spatula balanced in it. And had put his eggshells on the flimsy paper plate rather than the one I had put them on with directions to put the shells back on it.

After eating, Farmer H brought his plate to the kitchen to put in the sink. I pointed out the skillet on the hot burner.

"I turned it OFF, HM."

"Uh huh. Because that instantly makes the coil cool enough to leave popping grease on. And the eggshells are on that plate soaking through to the counter."

"The shells are fine. I'm taking them out right now."

It's really easier to cook for him myself. I'm pretty sure that's his evil plan, anyway...