Expiration Dates?

Ok, so my practice of ignoring “best used by” dates on food finally just about killed me. Well, not literally “killed” but close enough. My stomach is still tender and bile is hovering in the back of my throat even as I write this.

I have long made it my practice to blithely ignore the expiration stamps on food products (also library due dates – but I consider those fines to be recompense for the books I liberated from various institutions in my youth – kind of a karma balancing act – but I digress.) My family has always looked askance at my propensity to casually scraping mold or other old growths from food I find in the back of the refrigerator before popping it into my mouth. If nothing else, I figured I am contributing to the strength of my immune system. The Reverend (my wife) is exactly the opposite, and sniffs suspiciously at the spouts of even the freshest of milk cartons. I have witnessed the death of the contents of many an innocent bottle as she has upended the offending container and watched its milkblood spiral down the drain. She safely dispatches the drained carcass into the recycling bin, with the slightest shudder, wrinkling her nose, and shaking her head, all the while chanting under her breath, “It smelled funny, it just smelled funny!” No amount of reasoning or assurance that milk is supposed to morph into cottage cheese seems to give her any reassurance, and I am certain she will continue to execute perfectly good, (or even just slightly moldy,) food.

I, on the other hand, am generally blessed with a cast iron stomach, an insatiable appetite, and an aversion to throwing food away that would make a Great Depression survivor’s eyes well up with the recognition of a kindred spirit. I have eaten shrimp that have aged enough to start crawling again, knife and fork milk, and many, many hunks of cheddar disguised as blue cheese. I draw the line at bad wine, however. I execute it even more ruthlessly that The Rev commits lactocide. No point in drinking bad wine…ever. In fact, stinky cheese with a little character and a nice Les Ayguets late-picked Condrieu…that’s the perfect marriage of stink and sweetness! Generally this overall grazing plan has treated me well; I can go months before eating something that sets my pipes to rumbling or causes a low grade fever – a small price to pay for interesting food.

Then, this morning happened. Alarm goes off about 6:00 AM, I lay there for a minute slightly stunned by the assault of the buzzer and as the fog lifts I hear the joyous sound of the Cuisinart auto-grinder kicking in on the French Roast beans. Nothing better than knowing that you successfully set up the coffee the night before and didn’t accidentally punch in 6:00 PM rather than 6:00 AM. Soon the aroma of fresh ground and brewed coffee yanked me out of bed and I stumbled downstairs and fumbled for the first cup.

Depending on the day, the coffee alone is breakfast; on other days toast is a priority. I haven’t figured out the toast or no toast formula, but some days it is definitely required. Today was definitely a toast day, so I grabbed the bag and slapped a couple of slices of hazelnut 7 grain (sounds vaguely ballistic, doesn’t it) bread into the toaster. Chick’s dog, (a 287 lb chocolate lab, approximately the size of a Welsh pony,) started ramming his nose into various parts of my anatomy signaling he wanted a slice too. I risked the fingers on my right hand by dropping a single slice into his gaping maw, but escaped injury.

As I was standing there sipping my first cup of the black addictive elixir, the thought popped into my head, “Hey, some peanut butter would be great on that toast!” Visions of hot toast dripping with creamy sweet butter and layered over with super crunchy peanut butter sent me scrambling through the cupboards. I looked high and low in the pantry – nothing! Looked in the refer just in case I had some of that nasty Laura Scudder’s natural peanut butter that you have to refrigerate to keep it from separating into a nasty glop of oil floating on peanut solids. Thankfully there wasn’t any of that! I stood there sucking on the coffee and trying to think why the idea peanut butter had invaded my mind, and I remembered spying, a few days before, just the lid (kind of a weird baby blue color) peeking through the staples near the popcorn on the top shelf of where we store extra tea and half used bags of croutons. I got a chair and balanced myself precariously on it and pulled open the cupboard, scrunched the croutons aside, and BINGO! There it was; a tiny pint sized bottle of Skippy EXTRA CRUNCHY peanut butter with a baby blue lid.

I stood there perched on the chair and cradled the little plastic bottle in my hand and gazed lovingly at it as if it were a priceless, jeweled Faberge egg, or better yet, a half bottle of a 1959 Haut Brion Burgundy. The popping of the bread from the toaster yanked me back to reality and I hopped down clutching the Skippy. As my socks hit the floor, my gaze dropped to some tiny computerized print stamped on top of the lid, “Best If Used By January 2005.” I smirked and mentally smacked my lips, nothing like some peanut butter 5 years and 3 months past its expiration date!

Now I am sure many bottles of peanut butter (including the Scudder gag inducers) have flowed through The Rev’s cupboards since January of 2005. Some of it the politically correct and approved Smart Balance type that is supposed to be ok for you but doesn’t have to be basically frozen to keep it from separating, and some of it the bad old super hydrogenated Skippy . But somehow this little jewel had nestled in the corner of the cupboard for the better part of 6 or 7 years when you consider the typical shelf life of highly hydrogenised peanut butter before it expires. Who knows, it might have even been pushing 8 years! Truly a vintage find!

In a nod to my son JC who carefully nags me about eating stuff containing hydrogenated oils and saturated fats, I decided to forgo the butter; and in a fit of super-healthiness I decided I would JUST have the Skippy, not even laying down a tasty layer of approved fat in the form of Heart Smart butter spread. I could almost hear my cardiologist clapping approvingly.

Eagerly I grasped the lid to spin it open. It wouldn’t even budge. Taking a sip of coffee and grasped the bottle more firmly. Somewhere in the dim recesses of the thing I call my mind, it registered that the little plastic bottle seemed kind of swollen! This time I used all of my manliness and twisted the lid in a counterclockwise manner to the surprising hiss of escaping gas from the jar. The acrid smell and stinging pain that assailed by olfactory and visual senses almost caused me to drop it, but I was a man on a mission, so I was not easily deterred. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I peered into the jar. Wow, almost a full bottle! With the trembling hands of a grease-aholic, I jabbed my table knife in to the brown goo. It rebounded slightly, kind of like hitting a stiff batch of spackle that is starting to set up. I frowned and poked it more vigorously and I swear on my mother’s grave (even though she is not dead and would be very dismayed by my swearing,) the stuff in the jar literally grabbed my knife and started to shimmy up the blade like cage dancer in a LA nightclub (two other things my elderly and very alive mother would not approve of - cage dancers and LA nightclubs.) Startled, I waved the jar around at the end of my knife like a large peanut butter Popsicle, until the stuff seemed to subside. I set it down on the counter and tried to pull the knife from the jar, but now it was like it was set in concrete. The toast was starting to cool and I knew I only had a few seconds before it went from soft and golden brown to hard, cold squares of processed wheat. Again, I grasped the bottle more firmly and held it to the counter and summoned my manhood for the second time since getting up, and yanked the knife and the entire mass of peanut butter from the jar with a distinctive sucking sound.

In my right hand I again held a peanut buttersicle, but this time sans the jar. In my left hand was a perfectly clean jar. On the plate was cooling toast. Recognizing a true emergency when I saw one, I jammed the peanut butter mass onto the first piece of hapless toast. Nothing happened other than I mashed the toast as if I had swatted it with a mallet. I looked at the remnants of the toast and laid the ball of peanut butter down carefully onto the bread. I managed to scrape about half of it off on the mangled toast with my fore and middle fingers. I tried to spread it out, but it kept curling up on the opposite side like it wanted to roll itself backing into a ball. Finally, I scrunched both halves of the goo onto the dead cold toast. Looking liked the semi-dried remnants of golden brown play dough; it no longer had the appeal that had so enchantingly drifted through my mind fifteen minutes earlier. Nevertheless, I poured a fresh cup of coffee and noticed a little PB residue on my right forefinger, complete with a little piece of peanut in it. I absentmindedly licked the little nub from finger. Instantly, a sour, bitter, almost burnt taste assaulted my tongue. Thinking I had gotten a little piece of peanut that had been burnt in the roasting process I spit it elegantly into the kitchen sink and choked back a minor gag reflex. A thin greasy film was left attached to the roof of my mouth, but I remained focused on having my peanut butter toast and coffee.

I carried the two, flattened, former slices of toast to the table along with a fresh cup of steaming coffee. My logic was that the hot coffee would melt the peanut butter and toast in my mouth back to some semblance of that sublime mixture that I have enjoyed over the years when caffeine, tender toast and gently roasted peanuts caressed my taste buds and caused a sleepy smile to crease my handsome face. I lifted the toast to my mouth and took the biggest bite I could, followed by a large swig of coffee.

Sublime? Gently roasted? Sleepy smile? The assault on my senses was swift and merciless. The hot coffee combined with the peanut butter causing more of the toxic gas to be released hissing out of my mouth and searing into my sinuses. The thin greasy film on the roof of my mouth suddenly became a thick coating of stinging, burning axle grease. My tongue rebelled and my throat closed down and my stomach heaved. A VERY, VERY bad combination. As the room began to spin and my eyes wept profusely, mercifully I fell into a dark, black, bottomless pit.

Now resting here uncomfortably in the hazardous waste ward of Los Angeles USC Medical Center while nervous nurses and interns give my damaged and ravaged body a 50% chance of recovery; I wonder sleepily through the medicated haze, might they possibly have some toast and peanut butter?