Despite my stabbing rumpus/leg pain, I made supper for Farmer H on Monday. It was burritos, and I took some shortcuts. Rather than standing at the stove frying hamburger, I used some fajita frozen chicken in the microwave. Still, I performed other tasks that were taxing with my mysterious injury.
I opened a can of refried beans to warm in a saucepan. I diced an onion, poured shredded lettuce and shredded cheddar from bags onto a plate. Set the salsa and sour cream on the cutting block, with a spoon for each. All Farmer H had to do was pick up a paper plate from the stack on the counter, get two large tortillas out of a bag beside the paper plates, and start building his burritos.
I thought that would be easy enough for him, as I leaned on the counter, telling him where things were. You know, because he's apparently a stranger to this kitchen, and blind.
"You'll have to get a plate. And your tortillas out of the bag next to the plates. I hope your hands are clean!"
Farmer H declared that he had washed his hands when he came home, in the bathroom and not the kitchen. He picked up his plate, and opened the microwave.
"I don't know what you're looking for. Your chicken is right there on the stove. I already took it out."
"The tortillas."
"Over there, where I told you!"
Farmer H stepped back to the other side of the stove, the direction of the paper plates, and picked up A BOX OF INSTANT OATMEAL PACKETS!
"What in the Not-Heaven are you doing? Does that look like tortillas? They wouldn't even fit in that box! They come in a BAG! Right there beside the paper plates!"
Again, Farmer H picked up that oatmeal box.
"NO! What is wrong with you? Look at the plates! Right there!"
"Oh."
Maybe I should have let him open up that box of oatmeal packets, and see if he tried to put his ingredients on them! It just shows how much I do for him that he takes for granted. I'm surprised he didn't starve to death while I was severely down in my rumpus for the previous five days.
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