I just walked in on Rob making himself a snack in the kitchen.
“Peeuw, what’s that smell?” I asked.
Then I looked at what he was eating: microwaved potatoes and gravy.
“Ohhhhhh… I don’t think you should eat that, honey,” I said, referring to the gravy.
Rob looked at me, perplexed. “Why not?”
“Um, because it’s from Thanksgiving.”
(Canadian Thanksgiving, for those of you not in the know, occurs on the first Monday in October. Yep. That was almost four weeks ago. Now granted, we’re mostly vegetarian, so our gravy didn't have any turkey juice in it, but still. That stuff was waaaaay past the “best before” date.)
Rob leaned over his bowl and inhaled deeply. “Smells fine to me.”
I took another cautious sniff. “No, it doesn’t. Trust me.”
He shrugged and took a bite of gravy-smeared potato. “Tastes all right.”
I shuddered and left the room. He ate the entire bowl of potatoes, no doubt thinking that I was overreacting once again. He thinks that so long as you boil or nuke something long enough, it’s perfectly fine to eat.
I'm beginning to suspect the guy has no taste buds.
1 comment:
And I feel fabulous too! Ha! My third nipple gives me unbelievable powers! (Although, come to think of it, that gravy did have an interesting taste to it...)
Thanks for being there for me honey. I once phoned my mom from college and asked her if three weeks was too long to keep raw chicken in my meat drawer. My mother, bless her soul, wisely ignored my "but it's not really THAT green" arguments and told me to eat something else.
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