Once Again, Vigilance Is Mrs. HM's Kitchen Savior

For years I have refused to believe that Farmer H is... um... not very bright. He's a genius with machines and building shacks without plans, and coming up with quick fixes to save money and time. But when it comes to the kitchen, I fear that Farmer H actually IS... um... not very bright.

Friday evening, Farmer H was getting his weekend lunches ready to take to his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2). It was four hot dogs and their buns. He has some kind of heater that he uses for warming food. So he wraps it in foil. Takes the buns separately.

Of course I stopped scratching at the kitchen table. No good can come of lottery tickets in the presence of Farmer H. Before he even reached into the lower corner cabinet by the sink, I said

"Make sure to use the cheap foil. Not the non-stick."

Good thing I was watching. Farmer H was fiddling with the non-stick. I told him to put it back and get the kind that didn't say NON-STICK on the box. He pulled out the yellow box containing plastic wrap. Which had a portion hanging out the lid already, and is still the red-tinted version that comes out around Christmas time. I had to tell him that was not foil! FINALLY, he got out the box of regular foil.

Oh, don't think the problems ended there! I turned my head for one minute, heard a long crinkly noise, and looked back to see that Farmer H had torn off a sheet of foil about the size of a football field!

"You don't need that much foil for two hot dogs!"

"Yes. I do. It's fine, HM."

"Don't take so much for the other two! It's wasteful. Foil is expensive."

So the next piece he tore off was about the size of a basketball court. I watched as he wrapped those packets of two hot dogs each. Over and over and over. The foil thickness was about the same as the hot dog thickness! It's going to take them a while to warm up. All he needed was two pieces of foil, each about the length and width of a tissue box. It's not hard to wrap two hot dogs.

For a normal person...

Mrs. HM Is The Victim Of A Scoffing

T-Hoe had an episode of CHIME-CHIME-CHIME-ing on Wednesday afternoon. Not convenient for me while I was rushing to pick up The Pony to sign papers at the title company for a "new" property we're flipping. In all my rushing, I had left the rear passenger door not completely closed. An easy fix. However... while looking through all the warnings, and checking other possible problems on T-Hoe's dashboard, I discovered that he only has 17 percent oil life remaining!

That can't be good! As with my own life, I'd prefer to see a larger percentage! The last time T-Hoe's oil life ran low, Farmer H went out to check the oil, and added a quart. So not only the oil's LIFE was low, but also its volume. The thing with engine oil is, the longer you use it, the dirtier and less "oily" it gets, which makes your engine run not-as-smoothly.

It's not like Farmer H changes the oil himself like he used to. Even though in his $17,000 Freight Container Garage, he has an expensive lift that he bought for doing just that. Never been used! Nope. Too much junk in there for that, from the 18 original storage units Farmer H bought right after he built it.

Anyhoo... Farmer H takes our vehicles to the Devil's Playground Automotive Center for oil changes. Where he usually gets into an argument with assorted personnel over his service. It's not like he has to crawl under T-Hoe and drain out the old oil and dispose of it, then put in new oil. He pays people to do it for him.

I told Farmer H on Wednesday night about T-Hoe's aging oil. We had time. A thunderstorm knocked out TV for 45 minutes while we were trying to watch Survivor. On Thursday morning, Farmer H was lingering on the long couch during my daily 6:00 a.m. phone call with The Pony.

"Yeah. I'm kind of worried that T-Hoe's oil lost a percentage of life while we were in town yesterday. It's probably going to lose a percent a day. And now Dad probably won't do anything until at least Monday!"

When I got off the phone, to let The Pony start a load of laundry, Farmer H agreed that he wouldn't be doing anything too soon. It's one thing to make such a factual statement. It's quite another to scoff at my worries!

"Heh, heh. Nothing's going to happen to your car, HM. It will be fine."

"I don't want to get stranded somewhere, waiting for you to show up and rescue me."

"I did last time, didn't I? With your battery?"

"Yeah. But you were right there anyway, by accident. Good thing! I could have died!"

"Ha ha! You wouldn't DIE, HM."

"It was SO HOT!"

"You could have just gone back in Save A Lot, in the air conditioning."

"And do what? It's not like they have chairs! I couldn't stand in there that long to wait, if you were over at your shop!"

"It'll be fine. I'll get to it."

As usual, a big help to people he doesn't know, but putting me off until after his weekend re-selling junk!

Trying To Clue The Clueless

I went in Country Mart on Thursday. Mainly for lottery, but I also checked their hot case for something quick to feed Farmer H for supper. I was in luck! Not at the lottery machine. But at the hot case. I found a package of chicken leg/thighs. It was like a rotisserie chicken, but only the leg/thighs. Smelled delicious. Thus began my dilemma.

"Huh. That's an awkward package. I'll have to carry it in by itself. Can't leave it while I take the rest. The dogs will get it. AND the juices might spill in T-Hoe's rear. But I really want that chicken..."

The package was a long black plastic tray, with a clear top snapped on it. Unlike the deep plastic tray that encases a rotisserie chicken, with handles to carry it, this was just the flat tray. About 18 inches long. Holding four leg/thighs, sitting in their own juices.

The checker greeted me, asking how I was.

"I'm just wondering if I can get this chicken home without spilling the juices. The container is kind of awkward."

I was setting one of my 12-packs of Shasta Diet Cola on the counter when I heard the young checker exclaim, "OH NO!"

For the second time in two days, I cringed at hearing "OH NO!"

When I looked up, I saw that the checker had somehow dumped the juices out of the chicken package, onto the clear window of her scanner. Surely she wasn't not-genius enough to flip it over to scan the sticker on the top! I'm pretty sure they have a hand-held instrument to use for such things.

Anyhoo... Checker apologized, and went to get some paper towels to clean up the chicken juice. It was cooked chicken juice. So she wasn't spreading salmonella. She slid my chicken package sideways into a plastic bag. Again saying she was sorry.

"That's okay. It's less juice for me to spill on the way home."

If I was smart, which often I am not, I would have poured out the remaining juices on the parking lot before stuffing that chicken into T-Hoe's rear. Lucky for me, Farmer H was home, and came out to carry it in while I got the other couple bags of stuff.

When I looked at the chicken container after Farmer H had taken out his portion, I saw a crack in the clear plastic top. Not only on the edge where it's supposed to snap to the black plastic tray, but across the top as well. Not sure if that was there all along, if the Checker had done it, or if Farmer H was too rough getting out his chicken.

Surely that checker has handled enough chicken containers to know how to ring them up. Besides, I had JUST WARNED HER about all the fluids in there. 

Mrs. HM Has A Bout Of PTSD

The Pony's very bad week ended on Saturday with sudden downpours during working hours. He slipped on some steps and skinned up his leg. Sent me a picture when it happened.

Of course I felt bad. The Pony has taken a beating lately, what with pointy dog teeth, scrapes, and also turning his ankle on Saturday. He sent another picture later, to show the status of the scrapes, while soothing the ankle in the jetted tub of his master bathroom.

Not gonna lie. That photo made me gasp. And not in a good way. Perhaps I've mentioned in passing that I HATE FEET! There was no reason to see a foot attached to that scraped leg! My heart was racing from the TOES!

Those are the toes The Pony used to PINCH MY ARM one time while I was driving T-Hoe. The Pony was in high school at the time, but not old enough to drive. It was summer, and we were headed out to my mom's house. The Pony was wearing his slides. He always took them off in the car. You may recall that his preferred seat was the one BEHIND the driver's seat. Didn't want to ride up front with me. Wanted to sit in the back with his laptop plugged in. 

On several occasions, I had to command The Pony to remove his foot from the console. Nobody needs to see that while they're driving! Besides, on the slow-speed-limit town roads, I liked to rest my right arm on that console. Imagine my SHOCK and DISGUST one time when The Pony used those finger-like toes to PINCH MY ARM! Has the horror sunk in yet?

I'm pretty sure The Pony didn't send the toe picture on purpose to get me riled up. 

Pretty sure...

This Is Why Mrs. HM Will Survive The Apopadopalyspe

Monday evening, Farmer H came in from mowing, burning stuff that came out of the flip house beauty shop, and a trip back to town buying drywall for Tuesday's tasks. He stepped into the kitchen to gather materials for grilling sausage patties on GassyG Jr.

I watched as Farmer H bellied up to the sink, and grabbed my red solo cups that I use every day to drink water for taking my medicine. I use a double cup, and don't see a reason to get a new one each day. It's only water. Yes, I watched in horror as Farmer H PICKED UP MY CUPS WITH HIS FINGERS ON THE RIM and moved them to the side! The rim that my lips touch while I'm drinking the water!

Let the record show that Farmer H is not a stickler for handwashing. He was not going to touch our food with his bare hands. He had the package of sausage patties, and his spatula. So his hands must have been REALLY, REALLY dirty for him to even think about washing them. 

A simple trip to town leaves me wanting to wash my hands. I can't imagine the filth rubbed on my water cup by Farmer H. Who has no issue about washing his hands after stepping out on the porch to pee, or petting the dogs, or working all day with a lawnmower, or ripping out walls at the flip house.

THIS is why Mrs. HM will survive the Apopadopalyspe. A robust immune system, thanks to Farmer H.

Farmer H, The Provider

Farmer H showed up shortly after noon on Monday. I can't say that I was overjoyed. I was on the short couch, watching a movie, when I heard the dogs barking. Then I saw SilverRedO coming down the driveway.

"Why are you here in the middle of the day?"

"I brought home some macaroni that will go good with the sausage I grill tonight. And I'm going to unload some junk from the truck and burn it, so I can get some stuff to work on the beauty shop tomorrow."

Well. You know how Farmer H operates. I didn't know if he had a little dish of macaroni, or two giant containers, like with the previous ham salad. When I checked later, it was a small styrofoam dessert container that he had put in FRIG II. I didn't bother to look inside. I know what macaroni and cheese looks like.

Imagine my surprise, when Farmer H was going outside later with the meat, to hear him say,

"That macaroni is good cold."

"Wait. Macaroni and cheese COLD?"

"It's made to eat that way."

"What? Is it macaroni SALAD?"

"Yeah. That's it. Macaroni salad. You eat it cold."

That was a surprise. If only Farmer H had mentioned that detail earlier. I'm not a big fan of macaroni salad, so I told him to have what he wanted. I tried a couple spoons of it. Not too bad. There's still some left for Farmer H to have with leftovers.

That's The Sound Of Mrs. HM's Heart Cracking

I feel so bad for The Pony. He is going through tough times. There was a dog incident this week that I did not talk about. And he slipped during the rain on Friday, skinning up his shin and ankle. Also, one of his best friends suffered a criminal incident. THEN, on Sunday, The Pony discovered that all of his freezer food had thawed.

"I guess I didn't close the freezer all the way, the last time I got ice. Now all my food is squishy, and I have to throw it away."

"So it's warm? Or just thawed, and you can cook it and eat for a couple of days?"

"It's been cold even though it was wet all through. There was still ice in the icemaker. But I haven't gotten any ice water since Friday morning. So, it's long enough I don't trust it."

"Yeah. I guess that's too long. From Friday morning until Sunday afternoon. Overnight would have been okay to cook and eat. But that's a long time."

My poor sweet Pony. The Universe owes him a break.