Yesterday I bought two big packs of chicken for our house of six girls, expecting to freeze them as soon as I got the chance. Then I turned the temperature on the fridge down, because it didn’t seem very cold. This morning, I drank a sip of milk, and spit it out, quickly realizing I had misunderstood which direction to turn the temperature knob. Goodbye half a gallon of milk that we can’t replace for another week because we have no car and no way to get to the grocery store.
Today, Jenna and I decided to get the chicken into the freezer before it spoiled, too. I cut open one pack, sniffed it, and pulled away.
Me: “Jenna, come smell this. Is that rotten?”
Jenna: “Um, I’m not sure. It doesn’t smell very good. Maybe if we cook it and it still smells we won’t use it.”
Me: “Ya, but what if we just froze it right now? How do we know if it’s spoiled? Maybe if I google ‘rotten chicken.'”
Jenna stared at me for a moment. Then we both started laughing.
Me: “Ya, if the chicken smells rank enough to google ‘rotten chicken’ that should probably be reason enough to throw it out.”
Here we are carefully avoiding all vegetables, sketchy beef, and ice cubes while we’re around town. Then at home, we contemplate eating rotten meat.