The Pony is a chef. A middle-school FACS chef, to be precise. His class is cooking biscuits and gravy tomorrow. Today they fried the sausage. Unfortunately, a member of his group burned the first batch. By keeping Char-ley away from the stove, the second sausage turned out fine.
The Pony made no mention of the biscuits. So I assume they are baking them tomorrow. Or else they just slipped his mind, being all boring and non-burny like that.
I am eager to hear the details of his morning repast.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Buddy Blackfork Jr. Takes On A Challenger
My favorite lunch fork has suffered a grave injury. I meant to toss him in the trash at the end of last school year. But I couldn't. He's very sturdy. At least he WAS, until the unfortunate dismemberment. I seem to have blocked the details from memory. But I think chicken was involved.
The Newmentia cafeteria forks still cannot hold a candle to my Buddy. I call him Buddy, after Buddy Threadgoode Jr. in Fried Green Tomatoes. That's because with his missing tine, my Buddy looks like that Buddy, who lost his arm in a train confrontation.
Buddy Blackfork Jr. lolled in my classroom cabinet for months. Convalescing, perhaps. But today he was called to duty to do battle with a Banquet TV Dinner. I'm tired of ham sandwiches.
It was no contest between Buddy and the Meat Patty. Banquet Homestyle Grilled Meat Patty with Egg Noodles provided me with no grilled meat patty like I'd ever seen. And it was way too soft to be real meat. One of these days I'm going to read the ingredients. But Buddy kicked some major Meat Patty butt. He was workin' with three tines, but he could have done the job with two tines tied behind his back.
I can't get rid of him. Yet.
The Newmentia cafeteria forks still cannot hold a candle to my Buddy. I call him Buddy, after Buddy Threadgoode Jr. in Fried Green Tomatoes. That's because with his missing tine, my Buddy looks like that Buddy, who lost his arm in a train confrontation.
Buddy Blackfork Jr. lolled in my classroom cabinet for months. Convalescing, perhaps. But today he was called to duty to do battle with a Banquet TV Dinner. I'm tired of ham sandwiches.
It was no contest between Buddy and the Meat Patty. Banquet Homestyle Grilled Meat Patty with Egg Noodles provided me with no grilled meat patty like I'd ever seen. And it was way too soft to be real meat. One of these days I'm going to read the ingredients. But Buddy kicked some major Meat Patty butt. He was workin' with three tines, but he could have done the job with two tines tied behind his back.
I can't get rid of him. Yet.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Light The Torches
I am rounding up an angry mob. Join me, won't you?
Meteorologists must be stopped. They toy with the emotions.
Three inches of snow on the way. Uh huh. Yeah. Saturday night it will start.
No. Wait. It won't be here until Sunday evening. But it's not three inches anymore. It's just a trace. Maybe two inches. Depends on where you live. The city is going to get it. Nothing below that line there by your neighboring town. Uh uh. Nope. None for you. Don't even think about a snow day.
Hey! That path has shifted. Looks like you might get some flurries between two and seven a.m. But the drive will be fine. The ground is too warm.
Nothing here this morning. The precipitation cleared out early. It's across the river. The temperature will rise above freezing today. You're going to school. No getting out of duty this Monday morning.
Oh. Seems that there's some sleet down your direction. What's that? Freezing rain. And snow flurries. But only on grassy areas.
What do you mean there's ice on the sidewalks and your car is frozen shut? It's not my fault you didn't bring a scraper. It's almost winter. You should be prepared. I can't explain that inch of snow. And the ice on the bridges.
I'm just a meteorologist.
Meteorologists must be stopped. They toy with the emotions.
Three inches of snow on the way. Uh huh. Yeah. Saturday night it will start.
No. Wait. It won't be here until Sunday evening. But it's not three inches anymore. It's just a trace. Maybe two inches. Depends on where you live. The city is going to get it. Nothing below that line there by your neighboring town. Uh uh. Nope. None for you. Don't even think about a snow day.
Hey! That path has shifted. Looks like you might get some flurries between two and seven a.m. But the drive will be fine. The ground is too warm.
Nothing here this morning. The precipitation cleared out early. It's across the river. The temperature will rise above freezing today. You're going to school. No getting out of duty this Monday morning.
Oh. Seems that there's some sleet down your direction. What's that? Freezing rain. And snow flurries. But only on grassy areas.
What do you mean there's ice on the sidewalks and your car is frozen shut? It's not my fault you didn't bring a scraper. It's almost winter. You should be prepared. I can't explain that inch of snow. And the ice on the bridges.
I'm just a meteorologist.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Sharpen Up Your Bartering Skills
What's the deal? I go to my bank on Friday, and the ATM spits out TENS! Tens of TENS! Not twenties as usual. So everywhere I go, I have to count out tens. And the clerks thank me profusely. "Thanks for those tens! You're a lifesaver!" Or, "Hey! Tens! We didn't get any tens this week. We're running low."
And last night, I saw on the news that my debit card is being refused all over the nation. Well, not mine, specifically. But my bank's debit card. What's up with that? Checks are fine, but the debit is declined. Somebody's up to no good. I hope all of my personal information has not been hacked by some thirteen-year-old with too much time on his hands. That's why I keep the bulk of my benjamins in a rock-solid savings-and-loan. One that does not sell its loans to other institutions. Take THAT, you prepubescent hacker!
I might just as well invest in socks, so all of you who decide to live off the grid can buy them from me, (or perhaps swap a hen or a piglet), so you will have somewhere to keep your gold pieces under the sod of your back yard.
Hillbilly Mom. Always looking to the future, with one eye over her shoulder for the conspiracies that follow.
And last night, I saw on the news that my debit card is being refused all over the nation. Well, not mine, specifically. But my bank's debit card. What's up with that? Checks are fine, but the debit is declined. Somebody's up to no good. I hope all of my personal information has not been hacked by some thirteen-year-old with too much time on his hands. That's why I keep the bulk of my benjamins in a rock-solid savings-and-loan. One that does not sell its loans to other institutions. Take THAT, you prepubescent hacker!
I might just as well invest in socks, so all of you who decide to live off the grid can buy them from me, (or perhaps swap a hen or a piglet), so you will have somewhere to keep your gold pieces under the sod of your back yard.
Hillbilly Mom. Always looking to the future, with one eye over her shoulder for the conspiracies that follow.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Not Exactly Chicken Of The Sea
I stepped out onto the Mansion porch this afternoon, into the 60-degree temperature on this freakish December 3, and spied a curious sight.
Farmer H and The Pony were fishing for chickens.
I had intended to toss some old bread to the fowl. Normally, they peck around in the front yard. But today they were curiously absent. I attributed it to Juno, our adolescent puppy, who purely loves to chase after them all the live-long day while we're at work and school. She hasn't hurt any of them. They're like living toys. Sometimes I think that pup is not too bright. She gambols up to Genius, the most mild-mannered of our cats, and snaps at his legs. Genius is not into canine frolicking, and delivers a hissing right slash to Juno's nose for her insolence. Yet she comes back time after time. Genius stands his ground. He's a patient teacher of puppy lessons.
As I tossed hamburger buns, corn muffins, and the gummy white sandwich bread that teenage boys find so irresistible, the roosters came a-runnin'. But only the roosters. I saw a commotion in the smallest of the chicken pens, the one with a wire roof, where we keep the hens with young chicks. Not the baby chicks. They go in an old rabbit hutch, because the chicks will scoot right through the chain-link dog fence that comprises the chicken pens proper. That stresses the mother hens. They cluck-cluck and pace, while the chicks insolently traipse back and forth in dog-and-cat territory. But I digress.
There was Farmer H, wielding a large fishing net. It was bigger than a basketball hoop, but smaller than a hula hoop. The Pony was the border collie in this herding exercise. It was his job to channel the hens toward the pen, where Farmer H scooped them and deposited them into the lock-up. The purpose is to imprison the egg producers. Farmer H thinks they are holding out on him. He cannot discover where they've been laying. I told him that last December, they virtually quit as well. And it doesn't help that Tank the beagle has taken to sleeping in their chicken house. I think he's eating the eggs. Or at least making the layers nervous.
I figure it costs Farmer H about $.50 per egg when we're gathering eight per day in the summer, and $5.00 per egg during the winter. Of course, he doesn't want to hear that. Or get rid of seven superfluous roosters.
Farmer H and The Pony were fishing for chickens.
I had intended to toss some old bread to the fowl. Normally, they peck around in the front yard. But today they were curiously absent. I attributed it to Juno, our adolescent puppy, who purely loves to chase after them all the live-long day while we're at work and school. She hasn't hurt any of them. They're like living toys. Sometimes I think that pup is not too bright. She gambols up to Genius, the most mild-mannered of our cats, and snaps at his legs. Genius is not into canine frolicking, and delivers a hissing right slash to Juno's nose for her insolence. Yet she comes back time after time. Genius stands his ground. He's a patient teacher of puppy lessons.
As I tossed hamburger buns, corn muffins, and the gummy white sandwich bread that teenage boys find so irresistible, the roosters came a-runnin'. But only the roosters. I saw a commotion in the smallest of the chicken pens, the one with a wire roof, where we keep the hens with young chicks. Not the baby chicks. They go in an old rabbit hutch, because the chicks will scoot right through the chain-link dog fence that comprises the chicken pens proper. That stresses the mother hens. They cluck-cluck and pace, while the chicks insolently traipse back and forth in dog-and-cat territory. But I digress.
There was Farmer H, wielding a large fishing net. It was bigger than a basketball hoop, but smaller than a hula hoop. The Pony was the border collie in this herding exercise. It was his job to channel the hens toward the pen, where Farmer H scooped them and deposited them into the lock-up. The purpose is to imprison the egg producers. Farmer H thinks they are holding out on him. He cannot discover where they've been laying. I told him that last December, they virtually quit as well. And it doesn't help that Tank the beagle has taken to sleeping in their chicken house. I think he's eating the eggs. Or at least making the layers nervous.
I figure it costs Farmer H about $.50 per egg when we're gathering eight per day in the summer, and $5.00 per egg during the winter. Of course, he doesn't want to hear that. Or get rid of seven superfluous roosters.
Friday, December 2, 2011
16-Year-Old Smorgasbord
No, I am not channeling my mother, serving up aged foodstuffs purchased at Ye Olde Expired Food Shoppe. I am providing for the nutritional needs of the #1 son, relegated to third lunch shift at Newmentia. Most days, he can make do with the cafeteria offerings. But on Fridays, they run out of hamburgers.
On Fridays, the standard menu is pizza, nachos, or hamburgers. Because we are a bit lax with the lunch count, due to students not wishing to look uncool by raising a hand to commit to a lunch item, the good stuff is eaten up during the first two shifts. #1 invades my classroom on Fridays, to rifle through The Pony's snack drawer in my file cabinet.
I anticipated him today. Last week, he ate The Pony's mini Chips Ahoy, and his Cheetos. Today I bundled the Chips Ahoy and Cheetos into a Devil's Playground bag, and stashed it in my cabinet. I left behind one snack size bag of Cheetos. Then I scrounged up a 100-calorie pack of mint chocolate cookies, and an individual bag of Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips. The last two were a couple months past the Use By date, but nothing like four-year-old Ranch Dressing.
I was quite proud of my provider skills. What 16-year-old boy would not be happy with a three-course lunch? I heard the bell to end second lunch. Four minutes later, I heard the bell to start third lunch.
The #1 son never arrived.
After all that meal-preparation, he forsook my good will. But that's OK. His treats will be there next Friday, waiting for him all over again.
On Fridays, the standard menu is pizza, nachos, or hamburgers. Because we are a bit lax with the lunch count, due to students not wishing to look uncool by raising a hand to commit to a lunch item, the good stuff is eaten up during the first two shifts. #1 invades my classroom on Fridays, to rifle through The Pony's snack drawer in my file cabinet.
I anticipated him today. Last week, he ate The Pony's mini Chips Ahoy, and his Cheetos. Today I bundled the Chips Ahoy and Cheetos into a Devil's Playground bag, and stashed it in my cabinet. I left behind one snack size bag of Cheetos. Then I scrounged up a 100-calorie pack of mint chocolate cookies, and an individual bag of Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips. The last two were a couple months past the Use By date, but nothing like four-year-old Ranch Dressing.
I was quite proud of my provider skills. What 16-year-old boy would not be happy with a three-course lunch? I heard the bell to end second lunch. Four minutes later, I heard the bell to start third lunch.
The #1 son never arrived.
After all that meal-preparation, he forsook my good will. But that's OK. His treats will be there next Friday, waiting for him all over again.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Let Me Back In The Frying Pan
Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
Farmer H and the #1 son are killing me with kindness today. Please make it stop.
Upon entering the Mansion, Farmer H greeted me with the news that the office chair I had ordered for my mom for Christmas had arrived. "#1 already took it downstairs."
Okay. Good to know. I even resisted his inquiry as to how my day went. Because he waits to pounce, like a cat behind the couch, peeping at a mousetrap. And the minute I mention a topic unrelated to rainbows and unicorns, he starts complaining that all I do is complain. I want to underline the word "vent" in the dictionary, and duct-tape it over his breather while he sleeps.
The #1 son came up from the basement. I asked if he left my signature form on the front door for the laser printer I was expecting. "It's still there. The guy didn't take it."
"What do you mean?"
"Your printer is here. I just hooked it up."
Whoa, Nelly! "I didn't want it hooked up."
"The boy was just trying to be nice."
"Being nice would have meant asking me when I would like it hooked up. I bought it as a Christmas gift for myself. I don't want it now. I don't have time to learn to use it. I have stuff all over my countertop. I just put a new ink cartridge in the old ink jet printer. That's wasteful."
"Fine! I'll have him go unhook it!"
"That would be stupid."
"We're just trying to be nice."
More like trying to be dictators and drive me crazy. Hows about I paint #1's bedroom while he's away at bowling league. I know he's been wanting to update the look. I can throw out a bunch of stuff on his shelves, and pick the color of paint, and the design. I'm only being nice.
And when I'm done, I think I'll load up four of Farmer H's goats to sell at the auction. He's been meaning to get rid of some. Which ones? I'll take the first four I can catch. I don't know what a good price is for a pampered goat. But I'll take the highest bid. I don't know whether to promote them as tasty, or as loving. But I'm sure they'll sell. Farmer H will really appreciate me selling his goats for him.
I'm only being nice.
Farmer H and the #1 son are killing me with kindness today. Please make it stop.
Upon entering the Mansion, Farmer H greeted me with the news that the office chair I had ordered for my mom for Christmas had arrived. "#1 already took it downstairs."
Okay. Good to know. I even resisted his inquiry as to how my day went. Because he waits to pounce, like a cat behind the couch, peeping at a mousetrap. And the minute I mention a topic unrelated to rainbows and unicorns, he starts complaining that all I do is complain. I want to underline the word "vent" in the dictionary, and duct-tape it over his breather while he sleeps.
The #1 son came up from the basement. I asked if he left my signature form on the front door for the laser printer I was expecting. "It's still there. The guy didn't take it."
"What do you mean?"
"Your printer is here. I just hooked it up."
Whoa, Nelly! "I didn't want it hooked up."
"The boy was just trying to be nice."
"Being nice would have meant asking me when I would like it hooked up. I bought it as a Christmas gift for myself. I don't want it now. I don't have time to learn to use it. I have stuff all over my countertop. I just put a new ink cartridge in the old ink jet printer. That's wasteful."
"Fine! I'll have him go unhook it!"
"That would be stupid."
"We're just trying to be nice."
More like trying to be dictators and drive me crazy. Hows about I paint #1's bedroom while he's away at bowling league. I know he's been wanting to update the look. I can throw out a bunch of stuff on his shelves, and pick the color of paint, and the design. I'm only being nice.
And when I'm done, I think I'll load up four of Farmer H's goats to sell at the auction. He's been meaning to get rid of some. Which ones? I'll take the first four I can catch. I don't know what a good price is for a pampered goat. But I'll take the highest bid. I don't know whether to promote them as tasty, or as loving. But I'm sure they'll sell. Farmer H will really appreciate me selling his goats for him.
I'm only being nice.
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