Melinda tried to kill me at dinner again last night.
She made chicken and broccoli and baked a roll of Pilsbury biscuits. I thought the biscuits smelled a little funny when she took them out of the oven, but when I took a bite, I knew they were moldy.
It was the same taste I remembered from several years ago, when she made pancakes one Sunday morning and used expired mix. Despite them tasting weird, I powered through. The result was a bout of anaphylaxis that sealed up my throat and could only be loosened by a heavy dose of Benadryl.
“I don’t understand,” Melinda said. “We ALL ate the pancakes, and you’re the only one who reacted to them like that.”
“Clearly I am more sensitive to moldy pancake mix than the rest of you,” I said.
This time around, I was more wary, and I stopped eating after the first bite. Fool me once… “How old are these biscuits?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “They were in the fridge.”
Dominic went to the trash can and found the container. The expiration date read June, 2020.
“Jesus Christ!” I said. “That means we moved with them!”
“Who knew biscuits could go bad?” she said.
“They’re REFRIGERATED,” I said.
She frowned. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you again.”
“You know, in journalism, three of something is considered a trend. One more time, and you’re basically a serial killer.”
I Don't Belong Here. 