One squadron of the “food police” is coming on Thanksgiving.
The other team, run by my oldest daughter, Traci, will be checking out someone else’s pantry.
In the past, I’ve been known for having my canned and refrigerated products confiscated minutes from the time their patrol cars park in the driveway. Like commandos, they rush in.
Out go the mayo, ketchup, green beans and chicken noodle soup like a house under arrest. To this day, I’ve yet to receive a search warrant.
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But this year, Sgt. Tiffany and Co., will have little to seize. I’ve already reorganized the pantry and tossed all the out-of-date products. It makes me sad, but the dog is wearing a smile.
What’s been going down has nothing to do with my fear of the “food police.” However, it has everything to do with my worry of having an incident such as that of my California friend, Marsha.
She texted me the other day, “Sick with food poisoning from canned tomatoes. Lucky I didn’t kill us.”
It seems Marsha had grabbed a can for her recipe with the expiration date of March 2008. (Only a year and a half past the date? I’ve had food impounded twice that old.)
From what she said, the aftermath wasn’t pretty. Both she and her husband, Steve, had been off work for several days.
I don’t think what the two had swirling in their system was botulism, but it was some kind of awful bacteria that left them extremely sick and weak.
On the upside, Marsha says she did manage to lose a few pounds. As much as I’d like to drop a few fat cells myself, giving up eggnog lattes will probably be the easier route.
And as for the “food police”? I don’t know what they’ll do with themselves when they arrive for Thanksgiving this year. Maybe just be thankful that I’ve finally reformed.