You might sense that I garner no joy in cooking for Hick. I do it. But I don't have to enjoy it. No matter how much or how little effort I put in, the meal is hoovered up like the blueberry pies by Davy Lard-Ass Hogan in the story told by Gordy LaChance in the movie Stand By Me.
Tuesday evening, I made deep dish pizza for Hick and The Pony. They both love it. Nothing elaborate. It's from the box mix by Chef Boyardee. You mix the packaged dough, let it rise, pour on the canned sauce, and shove it in the oven. Easy peasy, but time-consuming. Oh, and while The Pony likes his pizza right out of the box, Hick must have MEAT on his portion. So I fry hamburger to add on top.
I'd already devoted 50 minutes to the endeavor. The Pony had just slid the puffy creation into the oven. I was washing up some of the dishes when Hick traipsed through the kitchen, and said,
"Now don't take this wrong. But what do you say... it's going to be... maybe 20 minutes until it's done?"
"Yes. Twenty minutes."
"Okay. Because my buddy just called, and wants some numbers off a gun that I have up at my store, so I'm going to run up there and get it. I should be back when it's ready."
"I can warm it up."
"I'll set yours on the stove. I want to get the pan washed."
The trip to town is 10 minutes. The trip back is 10 minutes. I KNEW Hick wouldn't be home when the pizza came out of the oven. In fact, The Pony had finished eating his portion, and was already soaking in the big triangle tub as per his nightly ritual, and I'd washed up all the dishes involved.
Hick was gone for 50 minutes.
He picked up his deep dish pizza from the stove, and headed for the living room. By the time I wrapped up The Pony's tomorrow-supper and went to sit on the short couch, Hick WAS DONE!
I had devoted an hour and forty minutes to that meal, and Hick ate it in six minutes. I'm glad I didn't whip up a gourmet feast.