My son looked up from his salmon bowl.
“This teriyaki sauce tastes a little weird.”
“You probably didn’t shake it enough,” I said.
He grabbed the bottle from the table and examined it. “Oh, gross. This expired in December.”
“That’s not so long ago. Just a few months.”
He looked me in the eye. “December 2016.”
Oh. Well. Haha.
No one got spectacularly ill from the ancient condiment, but the incident prompted an investigation of the cupboard by my semi-grown children.
They examined sell-by dates on every bottle, carton and canister.
Meanwhile, they brought up every incident of parental neglect ever inflicted upon them.
“Do you remember the time Mom put moldy cheese in my lunch?” mused my older daughter, dredging up an incident from at least 15 years ago. (I pointed out that mold is considered a delicacy on many types of cheeses. Though admittedly, usually not muenster).
“What about the time she gave me slimy carrots? And brown lettuce?” chimed in the other daughter.
“I just found a bottle of Tylenol that expired in 2013,” said my son. “That means we’ve probably had it since 2011.”
“I never liked you guys taking too much medicine,” I said. “Does that make me a criminal?”
“No, but poisoning us with five-year old Italian bread crumbs probably would.” My son held up a carton and shook it. It sounded like little rocks inside.
“Those are probably packed with so many preservatives they could last another five years.”
I suppose the problem is that I take expiration dates on food as more or less loose suggestions, while my children — raised in a more legalistic era — take them literally.
In my opinion, if there’s nothing actually growing on it, it’s probably OK to eat.
And honestly, things get away from me. Last week, I cleaned out the freezer — not because I was “getting organized” but because it literally wouldn’t close — and was shocked at some of the ice-encrusted items I found there.
An oblong object — either a pork tenderloin or a mastodon bone — was wedged in the back corner. A small container of what may have been chili, once upon a time. A bag containing a scoop of discarded take-out ice cream. Ham slices left over from Easter… but probably not Easter 2018.
“This is disgusting,” said a child.
“No, this is life,” I countered. “Sometimes you get burned, sometimes you get freezer burned.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
You know, some profound truths aren’t easy to explain.
Here’s the good news: My kids have grown up self-sufficient in many ways. They didn’t rely on me to tell them if the milk was bad; they took a cautious whiff before drinking. (I don’t drink milk, and it always smells repulsive to me).
If they feel the need to check expiration dates on their own, well, isn’t that a good thing?
At the very least, I’ve given them amusing stories to tell their children.
Whom they will presumably not poison with old teriyaki sauce.
Charlotte tweets @ChLatvala.