Farmer H is quickly becoming persona non grata in the Mansion kitchen. I can't tell him that, though. He might think I am rewarding him with a special gourmet meal. His grasp of any language other than Hillbilly leaves a bit to be desired. Just last night, he was telling me a tale of a visit with my grandma, who had a bee in her bonnet over being held hostage in a care facility, and accused Farmer H of being in cahoooooks with her son. That's pronouned like caWHOks. Though I'm thinking he probably meant cahoots.
Anyhoooooks, Farmer H has been leaving droppings all over my meal-staging countertop, setting his poopy egg basket on the food prep area, leaving food in pans on the stovetop after eating a portion when coming in late, and defacing new rolls of paper towels with a five-fingered smudge across the top. That is probably so I will stop nagging for the person using the last paper towel to put a new roll on the stand-up, metal-apple-topped paper-towel-distributing doodad.
Farmer H's latest offense is an offense of omission. He gets a whole-wheat bagel out of a bag in the vegetable crisper drawer of Frig every morning. Upon this bagel, he places some hot pepper cheese that lolled about the shelves of Frig for nigh onto a year (it was only a week past the expiration date when I sliced it for Lazy H so he could put it to use, but hey, it's cheese, by cracky, which needs aging anyway). Upon the cheese upon the bagel he places a microwaved egg from his very own stash of his very own chicken eggs. That is not the issue.
The issue is that in the crisper drawer was a bunch of celery that had likewise expired, some might even say that it had liquefied in the very bag that encased it. Forgive me for not noticing. I usually don't place my vegetables in that crisper, as I place them in the lower crisper beneath that one, unless the lower crisper is full. I have no need to look in that see-through plastic drawer to see what mayhem might abide. You would think that Farmer H would notice it at least one day a week, what with his bag of bagels rolling around in that celery juice. But no. He can't be bothered to even tell me to clean it out. I'm not asking for the stars here. I would no more expect him to clean it out than I would expect a chicken to have a serious conversation with me about what elements of her diet are seriously lacking. Which is a dream I had last night.
But Farmer H, if questioned on Celerygate, would only huff and puff, "Well, I don't do the shopping and I don't know what you've got in there and I don't know what you want me to do about it." He does not see the celery for the bagels.
It would be like me driving around in T-Hoe with a flat tire for a month, and then telling him, "Well, you take care of the cars, so I thought you would notice it. I don't know what you expect me to do about it."