Sometimes, when my husband has annoyed me in some way, I hesitate in answering questions. Like when he holds up a baggie of meat and says, "Is this good?"
I hesitate because, really, what is good?
Can meat be bad or good?
Does meat have a conscience once it ceases to be live meat?
Or maybe he's referring to his holding of the baggie. I'm no great judge of meat holders, but I'd say he's doing a fine job, standing there. Holding his meat.
I just stare at him, slack jawed. I'm sure it appears that I am straining to remember when I prepared the meat (was it on Meatloaf Monday? Or Taco Tuesday?), but I'm actually weighing the morality of knowingly letting my husband eat questionable meat against the satisfaction I will get from his intestinal discomfort caused by said meat.
This makes me a bad person. I know.
Smell it, maybe you should just smell it. That way, it's on his shoulders. If his nose deems it an acceptable meat, then surely I can't be held accountable if things go south. Is it sauced? Is it strongly sauced? It is sauced to the extent that it might make 6 day meat smell like 3 day meat?
It's not like it's going to kill him. Right? My God, what if there is something really funky wrong with that meat and he has a compromised immune system or a weak heart that's never been diagnosed, and bad meat is just the thing that is going to send him into a downward spiral? What if this baggie of meat and my petty grievance fells the only man I've ever loved?
What have I done?
He is turning from me, muttering "I think it's fine." and I hurl myself down the stairs and yell "NO! It's not okay! Don't eat it! I don't want to lose you!"
He looks at me like I'm a lunatic, because I am, and says "No, really. This is what you used day before yesterday, I remember putting it in this baggie."
His life, spared by his good memory and my guilty conscience.
48 minutes ago