I have a little bone to pick with Farmer H.
On Thursday evening, The Pony and I returned to the Mansion after running some after-school errands. I was a bit frazzled, having spent the immediate time after the final bell substitute-proofing my classroom, having a civil discourse with Arch Nemesis (who selflessly volunteered to make sure my science fair students made it on their bus the next morning, so I would not have to drive to Newmentia), then making a trip to the bank to deposit money for the #1 son (who had earned it stripping copper wire with Junker H) and cash in a cup of quarters ($34.00 worth, which I suspect he skimmed from me over the last two months), gassing up T-Hoe, picking up prescriptions (for which I am charged a different amount each month, requiring an inquisition, resulting in a forgotten ring-up that I had to backtrack to pay before their auditors found it and summoned me), and finally grabbing some gas station chicken for a comfort meal on Bowler H's night out.
I was not pleased with the sight that greeted me from the food-staging area of my speckled burgundy countertop. "Hello, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wet, Wadded-Up Paper Towel. I am just relaxing here on this lovely countertop, enjoying myself until the time my presence is requested in that yonder large blue wastebasket under the counter, in the nook occupied in more stately homes by the dishwasher. How is your day progressing, my fine madam?"
Not being of the ilk to proffer hospitality to uninvited guests, I immediately called for King H. "What's this on the counter?"
Several minutes of hem-hawing later, King H announced that he had used conjoined Bounty select-a-sizes to wash off the day's basket of fresh eggs. Let the full horror sink into your bones, down to the very marrow. Farmer H left a wet, chicken-poopy paper towel on the counter where I dice and slice, lop and chop, gut and cut our family foodstuffs.
Farmer H's defense was that he did not mean to leave it there, and that it was not dirty, because he used it to clean the eggs. He furthermore expounded that eggs do NOT come out of a chicken's butt, so I should clamp my trap about finding a poopy paper towel in the area where I set our food. In addition, he could not understand why I would think that a paper towel used to wipe poop off of eggs after the chickens have wallowed their butts on them and perhaps played a game of egg soccer on a manure field would be host to actual chicken poop, instead of just the clean water that he had run it under before wiping poop off the eggs with it.
Look for my upcoming cookbook: Salmonella Dishes from the Heartland.