Ham Handed Farmer H

Supper for Farmer H on Friday night was ham. Nice thick slices of ham that had been thawed out, from our Easter Dinner. Farmer H asked for ham sandwiches. I had a new loaf of Hawaiian bread, his favorite. Don't think the side dish was vegetables. Not for Farmer H! He wanted some mozzarella sticks with marinara dipping sauce.

Farmer H had only been home for about an hour. He had gone straight to his recliner, to try and watch his old TV shows like MASH. But the local channels are again not working on DISH. He had to settle for a movie, Daddy Daycare.

I was warming his sauce in the microwave (which is the size of a box of velcro wraps sent by my occupational therapist, heh, heh!) when I called Farmer H to the kitchen. I was waiting until the last minute to get the ham (with pepper jack melted on top), and the mozzarella sticks out of the oven.

"You can come get your sandwich ready."

Farmer H came to the cutting block, where I'd set his plate, a paper towel, his flat pickle slices, and the loaf of bread. I was sprinking some parmesan cheese on top of his sauce when I noticed Farmer H over my shoulder. He was pawing down three slices to get the bread that he wanted.

"Yuck! The sight of that makes me sick. You KNOW you haven't washed your hands after a day of digging around in who knows what, and peeing all over the place!"

"Huh."

"You know it's true! You can't even deny it."

"Whatever."

"SEE?"

"Whatever."

"That's what I mean! Whatever. NOT a denial. I'm glad I don't eat that bread."

I took the tray with the hot ham and mozzarella sticks from the oven, and set it on the cutting block. Farmer H immediately reached with his (dirty) bare hands to pick up the slice of ham/cheese and put it on his bread.

MAYBE the burning heat killed a few bacteria on his fingertips.