Farmer H, himself without a funny bone, told me a joke that his buddy played on one of The Devil's Handmaidens. Farmer H seemed to think it was funny. So maybe he's been taking some black-market synthetic funny-bone supplements, perhaps bought cheap at the auction. Here's the tale, as related by Farmer H, in the voice of his buddy.
"I was having a barbecue, so I went to The Devil's Playground for some meat. I got a big package of chicken legs, and took them up front. As the girl was starting to ring them up, I said, 'Just a minute. Are these FRONT legs, or BACK legs?'
That girl said, 'I don't know. I can go ask the manager for you, if you'd like.'
I said, 'Yes. Please do.'
She was gone for a little while. When she came back, she said, 'THAT'S NOT FUNNY!'
I said, 'I thought it was, and so did this guy here in line behind me.'"
Farmer H said, "You never know if that's a true story or not. But I wouldn't be surprised. These young kids today don't know nothin'!"
"Yeah. Like the kid who had to write up a ticket for the 18 inches of chain you wanted to buy, and asked you to buy either one foot, or two feet, because he didn't know how to figure that."
I really need to get Farmer H back on track building my proposed handbasket factory. By the time it ever gets finished, people won't even know what a handbasket is anymore.
Saturday, August 31, 2019
Friday, August 30, 2019
GrandPaddy Wrong, Negs
Farmer H left the TV on one of his channels after lunch. During a commercial break from Gunsmoke, my attention was grabbed by a device for old people.
First of all, let the record show that I used to make fun of those kinds of commercials when the boys were school age, and I was all with-it and happenin'. Like the one for the Jitterbug phone, which I thought looked like a toilet, and had big numbers, and was a not-smart phone that only made and received calls.
I also secretly shared in Genius's dismay that my own mother still had her original cell phone, a Nokia that wasn't even a flip phone. Just a BRICK, as Genius called it. Well. Little did I anticipate feeling her emotions when smart phones became all the rage. So hard to call and answer while driving. How I longed for my flip phone with the buttons I could feel, not needing to take my eyes off the road or pull over to use it.
Anyhoo, there I was, kicked back in the La-Z-Boy, watching a commercial for the GrandPad! Which is apparently a tablet thingy, but I just see it as a big screen to make calls on, because I don't know a tablet from a notebook from a hole in the ground.
Anyhoo, apparently old people represented by actors in a commercial go gaga for the GrandPad. Here's a link to a video of the commercial. Apparently, it comes from Consumer Cellular, and costs $40 a month. Comes already set up, and all you have to do is turn it on. No unknown callers can access it, only your family members. There's no wifi or network, so no chance of hacking. Yet you can video chat with family, and they can send you pictures. Isn't that just peachy?
Here's the thing:
I DON'T THINK I COULD WORK ONE!
I'm too much of a technidiot to operate a device designed specifically with ME in mind! How can those actory people in the commercial, who look way older than I consider myself, be more tech savvy than me?
I'm not buyin' it. Not literally, not figuratively.
First of all, let the record show that I used to make fun of those kinds of commercials when the boys were school age, and I was all with-it and happenin'. Like the one for the Jitterbug phone, which I thought looked like a toilet, and had big numbers, and was a not-smart phone that only made and received calls.
I also secretly shared in Genius's dismay that my own mother still had her original cell phone, a Nokia that wasn't even a flip phone. Just a BRICK, as Genius called it. Well. Little did I anticipate feeling her emotions when smart phones became all the rage. So hard to call and answer while driving. How I longed for my flip phone with the buttons I could feel, not needing to take my eyes off the road or pull over to use it.
Anyhoo, there I was, kicked back in the La-Z-Boy, watching a commercial for the GrandPad! Which is apparently a tablet thingy, but I just see it as a big screen to make calls on, because I don't know a tablet from a notebook from a hole in the ground.
Anyhoo, apparently old people represented by actors in a commercial go gaga for the GrandPad. Here's a link to a video of the commercial. Apparently, it comes from Consumer Cellular, and costs $40 a month. Comes already set up, and all you have to do is turn it on. No unknown callers can access it, only your family members. There's no wifi or network, so no chance of hacking. Yet you can video chat with family, and they can send you pictures. Isn't that just peachy?
Here's the thing:
I DON'T THINK I COULD WORK ONE!
I'm too much of a technidiot to operate a device designed specifically with ME in mind! How can those actory people in the commercial, who look way older than I consider myself, be more tech savvy than me?
I'm not buyin' it. Not literally, not figuratively.
Thursday, August 29, 2019
Impatiens Ain't Just A Flower In Hillmomba
Lately,
you might have detected a hint, a smidgen, a skosh of impatience in
Mrs. HM's typing voice, regarding the behavior of Farmer H. If so, you
are quite skilled to pick up such a nuance!
Let the record show that Farmer H is NOT the King of the World. Please, I implore each and every one of you, READ THE RECORD TO FARMER H!
I am pretty sure the world would keep spinning if Farmer H refrained from passing judgment on one or two events per day. Like Wednesday, when I returned from the weekly shopping at The Devil's Playground.
Farmer H was there, by cracky! There to help me carry in groceries! I'd said I would be home around 12:30, and I pulled into the garage at the digital click of 12:32. I actually followed Farmer H down the driveway, he on his Gator, the dogs forsaking him to run beside T-Hoe, like dolphins escorting a ship into port.
Farmer H went directly to T-Hoe's rear. I opened the hatch for His Royal Highness's carrying pleasure. He took some bags and carried them to the kitchen. This is where we differ in our technique. I carry bags to the porch, and when they're all out, I go up the porch steps, and start carrying the bags inside. Farmer H makes multiple trips up and down the steps, taking his bags on their full journey before getting more.
I can't see all that wasted wear and tear on knee joints. So I started carrying items from T-Hoe's rear to the side porch, for Farmer H to take into the kitchen. I was actually doing him a favor! Bringing the work halfway to him.
Of course the wind blew the garage people-door shut midway of one of my trips. So with arms laden and hands full, I leaned over, put my head against the safety-glass panes, gripped the doorknob with the plastic bags looped in the webbing of my hand, turned the knob, and used my foot to push open the door, which took a strong leg against that wind.
Farmer H had appeared on the side porch, and decreed, "You don't need to kick the door open!"
Au contraire. I DID! I did need to use my foot. No kicking, per se, because a kick would have given me a broken toe, like kicking a bowling ball. I used the ball of my foot to push that door wide, so I had time to get through before it slammed on me with the headwind. Yet somehow this was affecting the King of the World while he stood there watching me struggle through that door, while helping him...
Of course I let it go. The decree, not the door. I finished fighting that door to bring four six-packs of 20 oz bottled soda to the porch. And a bag of 7 one-liter bottles of flavored water, and a bag of canned goods. Still doing Farmer H that favor. I returned to close up the garage, and fetch my 44 oz Diet Coke and my purse and water cup. Crossing the kitchen threshold, I left the door open as I reached for a treat for the dogs.
That's our routine. They know if the door is open, even a crack, that they're getting their treat. If I close it, that means Old Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's cupboard is bare, and they get none. Jack often stands with his front feet on the threshold, his nose crossing the plane that demarcates OUTSIDE and KITCHEN.
"Jack! Get out of the house!" Decreed the self-appointed King of the World. Farmer H's head would explode if he knew this is standard operating TREAT PROCEDURE.
"You're not King of the World, you know. Your opinion of every incident under the sun is not absolutely necessary."
Of course that led to sputtering and the throwing up of hands. I was only trying to relieve him of some self-appointed, unnecessary duties.
Let the record show that Farmer H is NOT the King of the World. Please, I implore each and every one of you, READ THE RECORD TO FARMER H!
I am pretty sure the world would keep spinning if Farmer H refrained from passing judgment on one or two events per day. Like Wednesday, when I returned from the weekly shopping at The Devil's Playground.
Farmer H was there, by cracky! There to help me carry in groceries! I'd said I would be home around 12:30, and I pulled into the garage at the digital click of 12:32. I actually followed Farmer H down the driveway, he on his Gator, the dogs forsaking him to run beside T-Hoe, like dolphins escorting a ship into port.
Farmer H went directly to T-Hoe's rear. I opened the hatch for His Royal Highness's carrying pleasure. He took some bags and carried them to the kitchen. This is where we differ in our technique. I carry bags to the porch, and when they're all out, I go up the porch steps, and start carrying the bags inside. Farmer H makes multiple trips up and down the steps, taking his bags on their full journey before getting more.
I can't see all that wasted wear and tear on knee joints. So I started carrying items from T-Hoe's rear to the side porch, for Farmer H to take into the kitchen. I was actually doing him a favor! Bringing the work halfway to him.
Of course the wind blew the garage people-door shut midway of one of my trips. So with arms laden and hands full, I leaned over, put my head against the safety-glass panes, gripped the doorknob with the plastic bags looped in the webbing of my hand, turned the knob, and used my foot to push open the door, which took a strong leg against that wind.
Farmer H had appeared on the side porch, and decreed, "You don't need to kick the door open!"
Au contraire. I DID! I did need to use my foot. No kicking, per se, because a kick would have given me a broken toe, like kicking a bowling ball. I used the ball of my foot to push that door wide, so I had time to get through before it slammed on me with the headwind. Yet somehow this was affecting the King of the World while he stood there watching me struggle through that door, while helping him...
Of course I let it go. The decree, not the door. I finished fighting that door to bring four six-packs of 20 oz bottled soda to the porch. And a bag of 7 one-liter bottles of flavored water, and a bag of canned goods. Still doing Farmer H that favor. I returned to close up the garage, and fetch my 44 oz Diet Coke and my purse and water cup. Crossing the kitchen threshold, I left the door open as I reached for a treat for the dogs.
That's our routine. They know if the door is open, even a crack, that they're getting their treat. If I close it, that means Old Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's cupboard is bare, and they get none. Jack often stands with his front feet on the threshold, his nose crossing the plane that demarcates OUTSIDE and KITCHEN.
"Jack! Get out of the house!" Decreed the self-appointed King of the World. Farmer H's head would explode if he knew this is standard operating TREAT PROCEDURE.
"You're not King of the World, you know. Your opinion of every incident under the sun is not absolutely necessary."
Of course that led to sputtering and the throwing up of hands. I was only trying to relieve him of some self-appointed, unnecessary duties.
Wednesday, August 28, 2019
Men Ask The Darnedest Questions
For a few weeks, I've been meaning to put a bag of trash in the dumpster. It's on the passenger-side floor of T-Hoe, full of junk mail. Not full, of course, because that would split open the extra-strength black trash bag. It's full enough, to be heavy and awkward. I finally decided to deal with junk mail this way, and end the step of carrying it in the house, putting it in the trash, then carrying it back out.
Farmer H swove me to the casino on Tuesday. As we came back up the driveway on our return, he said, "I'll take the trash up tonight." It goes out on Wednesdays. They'd been coming around 1:00, but last week it was 10:00. So we're not letting them get away without our trash! Anyhoo... I said,
"Oh. When I get out, I'll put this mail in, and get that trash bag out of T-Hoe. The junk mail I've been telling you needs to go in the dumpster."
I had been planning to do it myself. But I'd also told Farmer H. You know, just in case he might be fiddling around over the past three weeks, trying to fix my passenger side mirror. He wasn't.
Farmer H lets me out before he pulls into the garage. There's stuff along the wall where I open up my door. (I'm sure this comes as a complete shock.) I was leaning in T-Hoe's passenger door with the day's mail, adding it to the trash bag, as Farmer H finished parking A-Cad, and opened up his door.
"Or... you could do it for me. It's kind of heavy."
"Okay. Where is it?"
ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?
There I was, standing with my arm elbow-deep in that trash bag, putting in the day's junk mail, and Farmer H had to ask me where it was? So I said,
"ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?"
"No. Where is it."
"DUH! It's in the back, heh, heh! Where do you THINK it is? I'm standing right here, putting stuff in it, like I said!"
Farmer H carried the trash bag to the dumpster for me. I'm surprised he found his way there.
Farmer H swove me to the casino on Tuesday. As we came back up the driveway on our return, he said, "I'll take the trash up tonight." It goes out on Wednesdays. They'd been coming around 1:00, but last week it was 10:00. So we're not letting them get away without our trash! Anyhoo... I said,
"Oh. When I get out, I'll put this mail in, and get that trash bag out of T-Hoe. The junk mail I've been telling you needs to go in the dumpster."
I had been planning to do it myself. But I'd also told Farmer H. You know, just in case he might be fiddling around over the past three weeks, trying to fix my passenger side mirror. He wasn't.
Farmer H lets me out before he pulls into the garage. There's stuff along the wall where I open up my door. (I'm sure this comes as a complete shock.) I was leaning in T-Hoe's passenger door with the day's mail, adding it to the trash bag, as Farmer H finished parking A-Cad, and opened up his door.
"Or... you could do it for me. It's kind of heavy."
"Okay. Where is it?"
ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?
There I was, standing with my arm elbow-deep in that trash bag, putting in the day's junk mail, and Farmer H had to ask me where it was? So I said,
"ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?"
"No. Where is it."
"DUH! It's in the back, heh, heh! Where do you THINK it is? I'm standing right here, putting stuff in it, like I said!"
Farmer H carried the trash bag to the dumpster for me. I'm surprised he found his way there.
Tuesday, August 27, 2019
You Can Lead A Dog To A Bone, But You Can't Make Him Chomp
It's been over a week since Farmer H used his new toy
power washer to clean the boards of the back porch. Still none of that
stain applied. The stain he had to buy right then, and took out a new
Lowe's credit card for both purchases. Which, according to the fine
print, has an interest rate of 26.9 percent! Even Steven, Gummi Mary,
and Not-Heaven help us if our exemplary mail delivery does not get the
bill to us in a timely manner!
You know who's really suffering from that power-washed porch? My dogs! Sweet, Sweet Juno seems resigned to the loss of her house (even thought it's been moved a mere 6 feet away). Poor Jack learned his first lesson yesterday.
Yes, like an adolescent boy on his very first date, my Jack was in a turmoil over the mixed signals he was receiving.
Jack followed me to the kitchen door for a returned-home treat. He eschewed running to the BARn behind Farmer H on the Gator, and let Juno and Copper Jack proceed without him. Jack was either very loyal to me, or just hungry.
Anyhoo... he waited politely at the door while I readied his treat. I dipped the top half of a Hawaiian Roll Onion Bun in some leftover bacon grease. Then I grabbed a pork steak bone. Jack seemed confused when I didn't hand him the treats right outside the door, on the WASHED PORCH BOARDS. I called to him, and we went around the corner, in front of Juno's house's new location.
I set down the bun for Jack. Again, he looked at me questioningly. Wagging his tail in a congenial manner. I figured he smelled the bone, and was holding out to have it first. So I handed it to him. Jack took it gingerly in his tiny jaws. He's not a snapper. A nipper when excited, yes, but not a snapper at food like Juno. As soon as I released the bone, Jack turned and TOOK IT TO THE WASHED PORCH!
"NO! Jack. No."
He looked over his shoulder at me, confused, then laid down the bone. Well, crap! Another stain from the BBQ sauce. I picked up the bone and tossed it over onto the unclean porch boards. It landed up against the house wall, a couple feet past the grease bun.
"There, Jack. There's your bone. Go get it."
Jack looked up with sad eyes. He wouldn't go. I scooted the bone out with my toe.
"C'mon! Let's get your bone."
Jack cowered to the porch like I was going to beat him. I NEVER BEAT HIM! I guess it's just a submissive posture to make me feel like I'm the boss.
"Here, Jack. HERE."
I picked up the bone. Jack wouldn't take it from my hand. I walked it to the side porch where he eats his cat kibble. Jack took the bone, and hopped down the steps.
"Good dog, Jack! That's my boy!"
Jack walked halfway to the carport, turned towards the porch, and ate his bone with his front feet in the lava rocks that Farmer H has used for landscaping around the porch.
I'm sure Jack will rue the day he stayed on the porch with me rather than following Farmer H on the Gator, with Juno and Copper Jack, over to the BARn to get the tractor.
You know who's really suffering from that power-washed porch? My dogs! Sweet, Sweet Juno seems resigned to the loss of her house (even thought it's been moved a mere 6 feet away). Poor Jack learned his first lesson yesterday.
Yes, like an adolescent boy on his very first date, my Jack was in a turmoil over the mixed signals he was receiving.
Jack followed me to the kitchen door for a returned-home treat. He eschewed running to the BARn behind Farmer H on the Gator, and let Juno and Copper Jack proceed without him. Jack was either very loyal to me, or just hungry.
Anyhoo... he waited politely at the door while I readied his treat. I dipped the top half of a Hawaiian Roll Onion Bun in some leftover bacon grease. Then I grabbed a pork steak bone. Jack seemed confused when I didn't hand him the treats right outside the door, on the WASHED PORCH BOARDS. I called to him, and we went around the corner, in front of Juno's house's new location.
I set down the bun for Jack. Again, he looked at me questioningly. Wagging his tail in a congenial manner. I figured he smelled the bone, and was holding out to have it first. So I handed it to him. Jack took it gingerly in his tiny jaws. He's not a snapper. A nipper when excited, yes, but not a snapper at food like Juno. As soon as I released the bone, Jack turned and TOOK IT TO THE WASHED PORCH!
"NO! Jack. No."
He looked over his shoulder at me, confused, then laid down the bone. Well, crap! Another stain from the BBQ sauce. I picked up the bone and tossed it over onto the unclean porch boards. It landed up against the house wall, a couple feet past the grease bun.
"There, Jack. There's your bone. Go get it."
Jack looked up with sad eyes. He wouldn't go. I scooted the bone out with my toe.
"C'mon! Let's get your bone."
Jack cowered to the porch like I was going to beat him. I NEVER BEAT HIM! I guess it's just a submissive posture to make me feel like I'm the boss.
"Here, Jack. HERE."
I picked up the bone. Jack wouldn't take it from my hand. I walked it to the side porch where he eats his cat kibble. Jack took the bone, and hopped down the steps.
"Good dog, Jack! That's my boy!"
Jack walked halfway to the carport, turned towards the porch, and ate his bone with his front feet in the lava rocks that Farmer H has used for landscaping around the porch.
I'm sure Jack will rue the day he stayed on the porch with me rather than following Farmer H on the Gator, with Juno and Copper Jack, over to the BARn to get the tractor.
Monday, August 26, 2019
He's A Flim-Flammer, He's On Camera, He's A Daylight Scammer. Allegedly.
Last Thursday, Mrs. HM narrowly missed being ripped off! Scammed! Stolen from!
As you know, I've been procuring my daily 44 oz Diet Coke from Orb K, due to the off taste of my magical elixir at The Gas Station Chicken Store. More on that another day...
Anyhoo, I've also been cashing in my scratcher winners at Orb K. I don't usually do that. On the day in question, I stepped up to the counter with my 94-cent Polar Pop Diet Coke, and two winning scratchers to cash in. My clerk was a skinny dude I've seen there before. He's never overly-cheerful, or even cheerful at all. Just does the transaction without speaking. I'm pretty sure he's stoned most of the time.
Stoney was being his regular self. I don't mind. I'm not there for small talk or a new friend. I do, however, draw the line at being scammed. I'm pretty sure he tried to rip me off. Not as sure as I am that Farmer H is trying to kill me. But fairly sure.
Here's what I handed Stoney. Not the exact tickets. These are losers. But they are the exact lottery games that I handed him. A purple 50X, and a green Money Mania Multiplier. Each of my winning tickets of these kinds was a $15 winner. So it was $15 on purple, and $15 on green. For total of $30.
You'll notice that there is no mistaking the fact that there are TWO tickets. Different sizes, different colors. I handed them to Stoney, saying, "I'd like to cash these in, and buy more tickets." Yes. I was spending it all back. I turned my head left to look at the board displaying the scratcher games. I wanted two of the $10 tickets, and two of the $5 tickets. Decisions, decisions!
Meanwhile, I sensed in my peripheral vision Stoney scanning my winners. I turned back to the counter to request my new purchases as he was setting the tickets over on the counter behind the register. Usually, they lay them right in front of me while printing out the winner receipt that they need for the register.
"That's $15," said Stoney.
"You mean $30 total, right? Because they won $15 each. I gave you two tickets."
Stony almost got an expression on his face. He had a delayed reaction. "Oh. Yeah. I dropped one."
INDEED! He had let one of the tickets fall to the floor as he was making his move to set the other one behind the register. He bent over and picked it up. Then moved back to the scanner. Whether he actually scanned it then, or went through the motion to look like he was scanning it, I don't know. Then he just looked at me.
"So it's $30, right?"
A little nod.
I gave him the numbers of tickets I wanted, and he rang them up, along with my Polar Pop Diet Coke, and charged me 94 cents. The register automatically sent my 6 cents change down the little metal slide into the little metal dish.
Seriously. I'm pretty sure Stoney thought I didn't know what I won. Like I was one of those feeble people who hand over a draw ticket, and say, "Did this win anything?" Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is no spring chicken, and she was not hatched yesterday. I spent an entire career making sure I was not outsmarted. To think he could pull this scam on me was ludicrous.
They're on camera 24/7, you know. And there was a sign on the door saying they were having open interviews for cashiers that very day. I don't know if Stoney was an experienced criminal, running his scam... or too high to know what he was doing. Either way, he should not have been behind the register.
I haven't seen him there since, but I know to keep my eye on this one.
As you know, I've been procuring my daily 44 oz Diet Coke from Orb K, due to the off taste of my magical elixir at The Gas Station Chicken Store. More on that another day...
Anyhoo, I've also been cashing in my scratcher winners at Orb K. I don't usually do that. On the day in question, I stepped up to the counter with my 94-cent Polar Pop Diet Coke, and two winning scratchers to cash in. My clerk was a skinny dude I've seen there before. He's never overly-cheerful, or even cheerful at all. Just does the transaction without speaking. I'm pretty sure he's stoned most of the time.
Stoney was being his regular self. I don't mind. I'm not there for small talk or a new friend. I do, however, draw the line at being scammed. I'm pretty sure he tried to rip me off. Not as sure as I am that Farmer H is trying to kill me. But fairly sure.
Here's what I handed Stoney. Not the exact tickets. These are losers. But they are the exact lottery games that I handed him. A purple 50X, and a green Money Mania Multiplier. Each of my winning tickets of these kinds was a $15 winner. So it was $15 on purple, and $15 on green. For total of $30.
You'll notice that there is no mistaking the fact that there are TWO tickets. Different sizes, different colors. I handed them to Stoney, saying, "I'd like to cash these in, and buy more tickets." Yes. I was spending it all back. I turned my head left to look at the board displaying the scratcher games. I wanted two of the $10 tickets, and two of the $5 tickets. Decisions, decisions!
Meanwhile, I sensed in my peripheral vision Stoney scanning my winners. I turned back to the counter to request my new purchases as he was setting the tickets over on the counter behind the register. Usually, they lay them right in front of me while printing out the winner receipt that they need for the register.
"That's $15," said Stoney.
"You mean $30 total, right? Because they won $15 each. I gave you two tickets."
Stony almost got an expression on his face. He had a delayed reaction. "Oh. Yeah. I dropped one."
INDEED! He had let one of the tickets fall to the floor as he was making his move to set the other one behind the register. He bent over and picked it up. Then moved back to the scanner. Whether he actually scanned it then, or went through the motion to look like he was scanning it, I don't know. Then he just looked at me.
"So it's $30, right?"
A little nod.
I gave him the numbers of tickets I wanted, and he rang them up, along with my Polar Pop Diet Coke, and charged me 94 cents. The register automatically sent my 6 cents change down the little metal slide into the little metal dish.
Seriously. I'm pretty sure Stoney thought I didn't know what I won. Like I was one of those feeble people who hand over a draw ticket, and say, "Did this win anything?" Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is no spring chicken, and she was not hatched yesterday. I spent an entire career making sure I was not outsmarted. To think he could pull this scam on me was ludicrous.
They're on camera 24/7, you know. And there was a sign on the door saying they were having open interviews for cashiers that very day. I don't know if Stoney was an experienced criminal, running his scam... or too high to know what he was doing. Either way, he should not have been behind the register.
I haven't seen him there since, but I know to keep my eye on this one.
Sunday, August 25, 2019
The Short Temper Cook Bakes Again
Remember that baked tomato egg thingy that Farmer H saw on his friend's Facebook? The one he made sure to tell me about and show me a picture of, saying he thought it would be good? I made it for him Thursday.
It took 2.5 hours.
I'm sure other people might be able to do it in a bit less time. But I'm not going to fry bacon. I hate to fry bacon. I bake my bacon. I can't just bake plain bacon, so I drape it over potatoes/carrots/onions, to give them flavor. Then we have vegetables too, and not just bacon. Of course Farmer H said that he likes HIS bacon crispy. Too bad, so sad.
My point is, if I'm putting bacon (cut up, mind you) in the bottom of his tomato cups, it's not going to stay crispy anyway. It's going to be covered by an egg and cheese. So I put my foot down, by cracky, and told him that I was NOT frying the bacon.
Anyhoo... I thought I had all the supplies, but I only had two onions. That is not enough for my liking. So I couldn't bake the bacon until after I'd been to town formy 44 oz Diet Coke onions. Of course it took a little prep time to peel and cut the onions and potatoes. I seasoned the baby carrots and put them in to bake while I got the onions ready. Added them to bake while I got the potatoes ready. Then draped the bacon on top and put the roaster pan back in the oven for another 30 minutes. That whole bacon baking prep took 90 minutes, if you don't count the time I took to go buy the onions.
Frying the bacon would have been quicker, and I wouldn't have needed the onions. But I hate to fry bacon. And then I wouldn't have had delicious vegetables.
I had a later than usual lunch around 3:00. But at 5:30, I was right back upstairs to make Farmer H's tomato egg. I'll tell you how, just in case you have half a day to squander sometime. It's not that hard. It's just time-consuming. Unless maybe you fry your bacon.
Here's what I kind of did, but you can google your own "baked tomato egg"
Yeah. I didn't follow all those exact steps. I put my tomatoes (I made him two) in those foil muffin cups. They stretched them way wide, but didn't stick to the pan. I actually used a foil mini loaf pan to set them down in. Only a little cheese spilled over onto the pan.
They took longer to cook that this. You can tell, though, by just looking at them to see if the egg has turned white, and if the yolk is solid. Farmer H says he only likes runny yolks when he has toast to sop it up. As you might imagine, I was NOT going to the trouble to make him toast. He told me that after the fact, and I was NOT driving to town for sliced bread!
Anyhoo... while the oven was preheating and I was gouging out tomato guts with a spoon, I put four slices of bacon into the oven on a pizza pan covered with foil. It crisped up nicely, to become soggy on the bottom of the tomato! I put a cut-up slice in each tomato, and Farmer H still had two crisp slices of bacon to eat on the side.
They looked very filling. Farmer H said they were good. I didn't think of getting a picture until he was almost done! But I made him push his plate away, and got a pic to prove the baked tomato eggs happened.
A view from above. You can't tell much. The melted cheese is about it.
Again, the melted cheese hides the egg. But it's in there! I swear. I have one tomato left. And some bacon. So it won't be hard to make this again tonight for Farmer H. I'll be having tuna salad.
It took 2.5 hours.
I'm sure other people might be able to do it in a bit less time. But I'm not going to fry bacon. I hate to fry bacon. I bake my bacon. I can't just bake plain bacon, so I drape it over potatoes/carrots/onions, to give them flavor. Then we have vegetables too, and not just bacon. Of course Farmer H said that he likes HIS bacon crispy. Too bad, so sad.
My point is, if I'm putting bacon (cut up, mind you) in the bottom of his tomato cups, it's not going to stay crispy anyway. It's going to be covered by an egg and cheese. So I put my foot down, by cracky, and told him that I was NOT frying the bacon.
Anyhoo... I thought I had all the supplies, but I only had two onions. That is not enough for my liking. So I couldn't bake the bacon until after I'd been to town for
Frying the bacon would have been quicker, and I wouldn't have needed the onions. But I hate to fry bacon. And then I wouldn't have had delicious vegetables.
I had a later than usual lunch around 3:00. But at 5:30, I was right back upstairs to make Farmer H's tomato egg. I'll tell you how, just in case you have half a day to squander sometime. It's not that hard. It's just time-consuming. Unless maybe you fry your bacon.
Here's what I kind of did, but you can google your own "baked tomato egg"
- Preheat oven to 350F.
- Grease a muffin tin with cooking spray and set aside.
- Cut the tops off the tomatoes and using a melon baller, scoop out the inside of the tomatoes. Save the scooped out tomatoes for a different use.
- Place the tomato cups, cut side down, on a paper towel lined plate; let stand 10 minutes.
- Arrange tomatoes, cut side up, in previously prepared muffin tin.
- Drizzle a little bit of olive oil inside each tomato.
- Season with salt and pepper, and a pinch of dried oregano inside each tomato.
- Bake for 12 minutes.
- Remove from oven and crack an egg inside each tomato cup.
- Bake for 15 minutes, or until eggs are set. Bake 5 minutes longer if you do not like a soft/runny egg yolk.
- Add shredded cheese over each egg; bake for an additional 2 minutes, or until cheese is melted.
- Remove from oven and let stand 2 minutes.
- Garnish with parsley and serve.
They took longer to cook that this. You can tell, though, by just looking at them to see if the egg has turned white, and if the yolk is solid. Farmer H says he only likes runny yolks when he has toast to sop it up. As you might imagine, I was NOT going to the trouble to make him toast. He told me that after the fact, and I was NOT driving to town for sliced bread!
Anyhoo... while the oven was preheating and I was gouging out tomato guts with a spoon, I put four slices of bacon into the oven on a pizza pan covered with foil. It crisped up nicely, to become soggy on the bottom of the tomato! I put a cut-up slice in each tomato, and Farmer H still had two crisp slices of bacon to eat on the side.
They looked very filling. Farmer H said they were good. I didn't think of getting a picture until he was almost done! But I made him push his plate away, and got a pic to prove the baked tomato eggs happened.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)