I'm Surprised He Hasn't Applied To Drive the Wienermobile

Hick has the nerve to claim that Val doesn't cook, so much as she warms food in the oven, or heats it up in the microwave.

Let the record show that Val is actually a genius, what with managing to warm that food with only one working oven element for nigh on 365 days, and having to open her microwave door with two hands, one on each of the drawer knobs that substitute for a long, curved ACTUAL microwave door handle. Compared to Hick, Val is a 5-star Cordon Bleu master chef.

At his advanced age, and spending time batching it between wives, one might assume that Hick knows his way around a kitchen. Au contraire. One would only be making an A S S out of oneself and me. Hick is what you might call a Wiener Chef. Maybe not you. But he's what I call a Wiener Chef. Or just a wiener.

The full range of Hick's culinary repertoire extends from the wiener to the weiner. Some calls it a hot dog. I calls it a wiener. And if you know what movie quote I'm parodying, I've got some biscuits and mustard for you. Mmm hmm.

Even before we were married, Hick relied on his wiener. His boys would come for the weekend at his apartment, across the parking lot from my townhouse, and he'd fix them wieners. His secret recipe was one package of wieners, one saucepan, and tap water. Give the Wiener Chef a blue ribbon, because he always served up the meal on a glass plate. Yep. He'd set that plate of 8 wieners in the middle of his kitchen table, for himself, his 5- and 7-year-old sons, and his 10-year-old stepson. You can imagine how fraught with danger such a meal was, what with those boys not having much to munch on between weekend visits, and possibly being taken on one of Hick's never-ending rides and missing lunch. A fork is a dangerous weapon when you're only 5 years old, with short arms, and starving, longer-armed people stabbing for sustenance.

It's not that Hick didn't have more than one package of wieners. He was a workin' man, with a regular paycheck. The other pack of wieners was for breakfast, cut up in the scrambled eggs and dusted with garlic powder. On the positive side, Hick's boys never had to fight off a vampire.

When we married, Hick sometimes cast aspersions on his old high school friend who lives on the land next to ours. "He is so lazy that his wife mows the yard. That's about three acres. And she works full time at Walmart."

"Yes. But he DID buy her that riding mower."

"He told me one day that he about starved to death between the time he got off at 3:30, and she got home to make him supper. 'I just laid down on the couch, I was so weak.' He didn't even have the sense to open up a can of soup."

Like Lucky Ned Pepper declared to Rooster Cogburn, I must say, 'I call that bold talk for a one-eyed fat man!' Because Hick has never made himself a can of soup, even though soup is plentiful in our pantry. Must be his aversion to the 'runny' part of soup. He waits for me to make it so thick he can stack it over the edge of the bowl. But he can whip up a wiener like a champ.

Lately I have been taking wieners in my lunch. That's because they're quick. And when you only have 22 minutes for lunch, quick is a plus. I buy the giant packs at Save A Lot. But a couple weeks ago, it seemed like my wieners were running low. Even though Hick was fed a proper diet of oven-warmed, microwave-heated meals, I fear he was skimming wieners. I mentioned that I needed three more wieners to get me through the week, and there were only four left in the pack. Hick became indignant, blurting that he DID NOT sneak wieners! Still. I finished the week with not a wiener to spare. I have a feeling Hick will also deny sneaking those Kraft American Singles, of which there was a whole pack last time I checked, and then only two left last week. And to think that I used to blame poor innocent Genius for being the cheese thief.

Yes, Hick's gastronomical proclivities are skewed heavily toward wieners. He'll eat them on buns, he'll eat them on Nutty Oat Bread, he'll eat them on the chicken bread languishing on the countertop for two weeks. When I was in the hospital in May, I'm pretty sure Hick survived on wieners. Thank goodness my mom took care of The Pony.

Don't you worry about Hick running out of wieners and starving to death. In a pinch, he will devour wieners' bastard cousin: baloney.