Last night was a bit of a disaster. I had intended to make a delicious chicken and black bean hotpot with rice. I often made this sort of saucy stir-fry when we lived in Korea, mostly because a) the ingredients were easily found and b) if I made enough rice to go with it, the sauce helped stretch it into leftovers. In case you can’t tell, I am the one who does all the cooking, which sounds like a hardship but isn’t when you realise that Michael does most of the dishes, and all of the cleaning and laundry. I definitely get the better deal! Also, I love food and live to eat whereas he’d be happy eating dirt if he learned it was nutritious and full of fibre.
But back to last night… We’d gone shopping together for the ingredients (how romantic!) and in an effort to save some cash (see ‘fretting over money’ in my last post) I bought chicken from the ‘reduced to clear’ section. I know I know, I shouldn't have done it, but the date said to eat it by Nov. 21, and it was the 21st so I figured it wasn't a problem. I took the ingredients home and made the hot pot. It smelled delicious. I tasted a piece of baby corn. Mmm... so good! I tasted a snow pea and it was yummy. I tasted a bit of chicken...mmm?...no, wait, something's not right... oh, ugh! It had gone slightly rancid, and I had foolishly refused to listen to my intuition when I was cutting it up.
I was forced to throw the whole thing out and, in a fit of paranoia, clean everything in the kitchen with antibacterial wipes. We went out for pizza instead, courtesy of my generous parents who took pity on us, and I spent the whole night wondering if I had given myself food poisoning. Luckily, I didn't serve any of it to Michael, which should convince him I'm not looking to bump him off anytime soon. Turns out love isn't 'never having to say you're sorry', it's 'not giving your partner salmonella'.