Expiration Date

My friend Colleen told me the other day that when she was pregnant, she used to look at the labels on food jars to seek out their expiration date.  Not necessarily to figure out whether or not to pitch the food, but rather to find out if the baked beans or pears or grape jelly would still be in her fridge/pantry after her baby was born.  As in, just think, my kid will be six months old by the time this can of peas expires!  (Note that this game cannot apply to pickles and ice cream sandwiches for obvious reasons.  There will be none of those babies left).

I found pork chops on sale at Cub last week and was eager to throw together a crock pot meal that my mom is famous for, involving rice and the Minnesota staple of cream of mushroom soup.  I pulled out the bag of rice and played the expiration date game: Childe Version 2.0 will be 9 months old before I would need to pitch it, but no need- I dumped the bag into the crock pot for that night's dinner.

Some hours later, we walked into our house after work and were intoxicated by the aroma of garlic, onions, and savory pork chops.  I love crock pots. I heaped up two platefuls of food and we dug in.  But as I was chewing, something on my plate caught my eye.  Was that a mushroom bit?  That long, wormy-looking dark spot embedded in the rice?  I blinked, and looked closer.  It was no mushroom bit.  I ran to the bathroom covering my mouth.

"What? WHAT?  Kirsten, what the heck is wrong? Talk to me!" Michael called out, but I was too busy rinsing out my mouth and trying not to vomit.  Then I hear Michael say, "Honey, that's just part of the chicken."

"We're not having chicken, it's a pork chop!" I call out desperately, and continued rinsing my mouth.

"It's a part of the pork, then."

"Michael, no," I argued.  "IT HAS AN ANTENNA!"

Then silence.  I walked back to the dining room, covering my mouth.

"It's gone," Michael said, "I took care of it.  See?  It's fine, it's gone."

"It was a huge bug!" I cried out, horrified.

Michael didn't answer but his lips quivered in a suppressed smile.  Crap, I was right, it really was a huge bug, Michael was just trying to make me feel better.  In his heroic attempt to not see me go totally ballistic, he finished his meal.

"Your food came from the same crock pot as that ginormous antenna-bug," I said.

He shrugged and continued to fork it in his mouth.

"It doesn't bother you?" I asked incredulously.

After a moment, he said, chewing, "maybe a little."




And so the next night, we went out to eat.