Funny how Farmer H prefers his meals made to certain specifications if I MAKE THEM, yet suddenly has a different standard if he will be making them himself! Yes. I know you are flabbergasted to hear this revelation.
One night this week, I was going to make BBQ pulled pork sandwiches for Farmer H. I normally start his supper at 6:30, because Farmer H is a gadabout, and also utilizes every minute of sunlight when he's on the Mansion grounds, working outside. The days are growing shorter. It's still daylight at 6:30, but Farmer H is returning to the Mansion earlier.
I think it was Thursday, when I'd been having a really Not-Heavenish day, dealing with the bank stupidity, and the credit union forking over tree-trimming cash (two days after giving me a check with the wrong phone number on it for Pony House supplies), and then dealing with the RumpusHole blocking T-Hoe in at the Gas Station Chicken Store. So I had my DELICIOUS Dairy Queen chicken basket waiting for me, which I had intended as LUNCH. It was now 4:45.
Once Farmer H turned up underfoot, I told him, "I will be back up at 6:30 to make your supper." Farmer H had that look on his face like he was quite put-upon by my statement. "I am not doing it now. I am going to sit down with my LUNCH, and enjoy it, and then I will be up later." Still, the look.
"You know, if you want it now, I guess nothing would prevent you from getting your own supper. All you have to do is cut open the plastic bag of BBQ pork, and warm it in the microwave in a glass bowl. There are Hawaiian rolls or those round steak rolls in the cabinet. Oh, and your pickle you wanted sliced..."
"I don't want to eat it just yet. I can get it myself."
"Okay. The big pickles are in the bottom shelf of the refrigerator door."
Again, that look.
"Oh. I guess I can go ahead and slice the pickle before I go downstairs. Do you want me to put it back in the fridge?"
"No. It will be fine there."
See what I mean? Farmer H couldn't even slice his own pickle! Otherwise, he would have said, "I can slice my own pickle." Or he would have said, "I don't really want a pickle." But no. He wanted it, as long as I was the one slicing it.
Here's another example. Friday evening, I had to carry in THREE BOXES of groceries from Save A Lot. HEAVY boxes, with canned goods and jars. I called to see if Farmer H was home to help me, but no, he was sitting at his buddy's business for the third hour, chewing the fat with his cronies. I was planning to make him a frozen rising crust pizza from Save A Lot. The 3-meat kind. I always add mushrooms and onions to it, and a little extra cheese to hold on the toppings.
Of course Farmer H showed up right as I was carrying my meal down to my lair. Right after I'd carried in the stuff, and had put part of it away. Those canned goods could wait.
"I was hoping for help with carrying. I didn't know you were staying at your buddy's until almost 5:00. You're usually home by 4:00. I'll make your pizza when I'm ready. I don't feel like standing here a half hour getting it ready. I'm not rushing myself. OR I can make you something quicker."
"No. The pizza is good. I can make it myself."
"So you're going to slice an onion? I'll set one out. And the mushrooms are in the pantry."
"I don't need all that stuff. I like it just fine the way it is."
"All right. Want me to set out the holey pizza pan?"
"No."
"What are you going to cook it on? I always use the holey pan, so the crust gets done in the middle."
"I'll use the holey pan."
"Okay. Do you know where it is?"
"No. I don't know where you keep anything. There's no rhyme nor reason to it."
"I've only kept it in the same place for 23 years. In the thin bottom cabinet that has all the flat pans standing in it, next to where a dishwasher would go. I'll set it out. And you better watch that pizza, and check it 10 minutes before it's supposed to be done, because the crust edges will start getting done sooner than the directions say. AND put that holey pan on a flat pizza pan before slicing, because I don't want all the crumbs to fall through into the burner and stink up the house next time we use it."
Farmer H managed to make his pizza. I don't know how it turned out. Well enough, I guess, because he ate the leftovers for supper Saturday night. Sunday, I'm back on cooking duty.
4 comments:
How on earth did he manage before he met you?
River,
Well, his ex-wife tried to poison him with antifreeze... ALLEGEDLY! He said he ended up in the hospital for tests, and suddenly got better when not eating her food!
When he lived in our apartment complex where I met him, he used to order Domino's pizza on their bargain night, so he had a few days meals in his fridge. I know he boiled HOT DOGS for HOS and the little future Veteran and their older half-brother when they came for the weekends, and served them on a platter on the table. And scrambled eggs with garlic powder. I was not invited over for a meal!
Once The Pony gets into his own pasture, perhaps you should register for a "writing retreat" (it could be just a long weekend at a motel) so he can fend for himself for a few days. Maybe he'd appreciate you more once you returned?
Oh, who am I kidding?
Sioux,
Yeah, he would probably revert to eating hot dogs for every meal. On the DOG BREAD that is the expired bread I set on the counter. I guess all the times he's eaten the dog bread, the ease of not-opening a cabinet door overrode his ability to sniff out mold before it happens.
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