Anyhoo...Farmer H tipped me off that the hot dogs were ready, and went back to fetch them off the grill. Usually, I put foil on a pizza pan, for Farmer H to stack the BBQ on. This time, it was only hot dogs. I figured they would roll off the side of a pizza pan, and that Farmer H would be smart enough to take out a paper plate for collection.
Let the record show that I do not like BBQ sauce on my hot dogs. I like them charred, with mustard, or sometimes slaw on top. Farmer H likes the sauce. We decided that he'd grill the open pack, with six hot dogs left, and the other pack as well. Since six hot dogs would only give us one meal, and somebody another one. Yes. We eat two hot dogs apiece.
Anyhoo...I was in the kitchen, turning off the pan of Maple Bacon Beans, getting ready to dice an onion for Farmer H to add on top, when the tragedy happened. I heard the kitchen door open, then a THUD, then
"OHHHHHHHHH #@%&!!!"
Yes. The pooper of every party, as well as the back of the toilet seat, shouted the actual curse word for POOP.
"No you didn't!"
"I DID. I dropped the hot dogs."
"How many?"
"All of them! We can still eat them! We can wash them off!"
"WHAT? We're not raccoons! Water will ruin them! But we can wipe them off. With paper towels."
"JACK! GET BACK!"
"NO! NO! JACK!!! NO!"
Happy little Jack had rounded the side of Juno's dog house. Tail wagging. The location of the droppage was RIGHT WHERE I TOSS DOWN TREATS FOR JACK EVERY DAY! I'm sure he thought he hit the jackpot! 14 hot dogs was way better than the slice of cheddar and the slice of bologna that he ate there only a few hours previous.
Juno came out of her house, afraid she was missing out. She did not look at all sweet.
"JUNO! NO!"
I could imagine both dogs darting in to snap up a couple hot dogs apiece. But they stood their ground. I was proud of them. It's not like they have the self-control to be those pampered pooches who can balance a filet mignon on their nose for five minutes, before tossing it in the air to eat it.
Farmer H picked up all 14 hot dogs, and brought them in the house, 7 on each plate.
"Mine have sauce. Yours don't. I think that one is your plate."
Sweet Gummi Mary! Did that mean Farmer H had been sorting the hot dogs as he picked them up? So much for the 3-second rule.
In polishing my plate of hot dogs, I found 3 that were really sticky, leaving residue on the paper towel. Of which I used several, one side for each hot dog, so as not to be rubbing scraped-off stuff back onto another hot dog. Funny how Farmer H had 3 hot dogs that seemed kind of dry. So we swapped them out. Three days of supper, and maybe another for Farmer H if I give him my 7th hot dog.
They look gigantic here, but I assure you, they are just regular hot dogs (albeit the fat ones), which are not quite bun length, even though they look it. The torn-off bun butts on my plate now beg to differ. Hope the mustard didn't trigger you! It's even on the buns underneath the dogs.
I asked Farmer H how he managed to dump all 14 hot dogs off the edge of a plate with sides.
"I had yours on one plate, and mine on the other plate. I balanced the bottom of one plate on my hand, and the other plate up my arm, while I opened the door with my right hand. They fell off. Now you have a story to tell! Except the eating them part. I bet you don't tell that."
Sweet, simple Farmer H. I suppose he would blatantly disregard the Truth In Blogging Law. Good thing he doesn't have a blog of his own. For more reasons than THAT!
I'm assuming the home-brewed beer (and possibly a bottled one) had nothing to do with the accident. I figure we'll survive eating just-grilled hot dogs off the porch. It's only the boards where the dogs lick up the juices from their spoiled-food treats, and walk their paws that may or may not have already walked in poop. I figure the worst that can happen is that we'll get worms...
7 comments:
I think you wiped them off good enough. Wouldn't it be a better idea for Farmer H to bring all the hot dogs inside in something that won't spill? Like a roasting pan with deep sides or a bucket? Lined with foil of course so you don't have to wash up. THEN divide and add his sauce and your mustard.
River,
Oh, please! My sides ache from laughing! OF COURSE it would be a better idea for Farmer H to bring in the food in something that won't spill! As you well know by now, FARMER H and BETTER IDEAS mix like oil and water!
Usually, he grills pork steaks and sausages or hot dogs. I give him the foil-covered pizza pan, and he puts the rolling meat in the valley between pork steaks. It works fine. I'd even have thought Farmer H could carry hot dogs on a paper plate with a rim, just like that one in my picture. But no. He had to put them on TWO plates, and juggle them (UNSUCCESSFULLY) while opening the kitchen door.
Sweet Gummi Mary! He could have hollered to me to open it for him, or kicked the bottom with his boot, like a knock. But no. He had to do it himself!
I'm a saucy woman. I like mustard, and ketchup and anything else liquid-y that goes on hot dogs.
However, my days of eating hot dogs are pretty much over...
He needs retraining. Make a new rule that all barbecued meats MUST be brought inside in a deep sided lined with foil roasting pan. Be firm and stick with it until he gets it.
Sioux,
So sorry for your loss of hot dog privileges. I hadn't had one since last summer/fall BBQ season. I can do without them. After we eat up these leftovers.
***
River,
More like he needs reSTRaining! Farmer H is virtually untrainable. If he was a dog, I'd have my arm in a sling, and be paying for three different newspapers with which to swat his hindquarters! He's as stubborn as our former beagle, Tank.
At least Farmer H would have access to a roasting pan. He's got one of at least everything in the world. Except a narwhal horn.
Those dropped hotdogs have now made you immune to the corona virus!!
Kathy,
Heh, heh! THAT, or my 28 years of exposure to mutating viruses in the classroom.
Post a Comment