We went to our local grocery store tonight to get some provisions. Usually we avoid it. You inevitably have to dust any boxed or canned food you buy, the produce is rank at best, but the butcher shop and frozen foods are generally reliable. So I bought us each a nice t-bone and as Matt was unwrapping mine he said, "Smells kind of funny." I am not a person who smells something that is purported to smell bad. Seems masochistic, somehow.
So we grilled and I ate my steak. The last bite tasted funny. No, I didn't spit it out. Why do I have a feeling that I'm going to be awake at 2:00 in the morning, sitting on the toilet with a pot in my lap for the barf?
I'm not smart about food sometimes. Yes, I do believe milk is bad on the expiration date and I pour it down the drain. I also don't eat leftovers that are more than a couple of days old. However, I did once finish a leftover seafood burrito that I'd left in my car overnight. In August. I woke up in the middle of the night, sicker than I'd ever been. And I couldn't move my legs. They just didn't work. I dragged myself by the arms to the bathroom, took care of business, then crawled back when it was over. I woke up the next morning and my legs worked.
You'd think I'd have learned after all that, wouldn't you?