The Seven Day Rule

My husband and I have been together since, well as I tell folks, God was a boy.

And while it hasn’t quite been that long, we’ve been with together long enough to be aware of each other’s idiosyncrasies—even if we still don’t fully understand them.

For example, I grew up in a household where leftovers were good only for a certain period of time. One week. Seriously. Doesn’t matter what it was—pizza, dessert, a full meal. After one week, it was considered to be no good, and my Mom would throw whatever it was out.

Or, she’d forget about it, and it would turn into a science experiment gone wrong. There were times when I’d find something shoved in the back of the fridge that had grown so much mold you would think that a portal had opened up in the back of it, and the rolling hills of Ireland had taken over.

My Mom even had a saying if I was wondering if something was still good or not: When in doubt, throw it out.

(And everyone knows that if a sentence rhymes, its meaning must be followed completely!) 

My husband, however, did not grow up in a home like this. He actually grew up with three older brothers, so I’m guessing that the chances of there being leftovers was slim to none.

But he will eat lots of things that I won’t.

I remember one time we made a big pot of chili. It was eight days after we made it when he asked if I wanted it for dinner that night.

“We can’t,” I said. “It’s eight days old.”

“Michele—it smells fine, it looks fine, and I’m sure it tastes fine,” he said. “I promise it’s safe to eat.”

“No, it’s not. We have to get rid of it,” I countered.

“How about if I freeze it then?” he asked.

“NO! NO! NO! Freezing it when it’s eight days old will just freeze all the rottenness into it, and we’ll forget about it. Six months from now, we’ll be sitting down to eat thawed and heated up chili, and we’ll both drop dead. They’ll find us in the house, dead at the kitchen table, suffering from chili poisoning,” I said.

My husband is an extremely patient man. He looked at me, sighed, and then said, “Look, the Bad Food Fairy didn’t come last night and wave a wand over the chili. It was good yesterday, and it’s still good today. I promise you that we can eat this. Let’s just eat it, and if I’m wrong—which I’m not—I’ll never bug you about eating food that’s more than seven days old ever again.”

This was huge. If we ate the chili, and I “won” then we’d end up really sick. But then he wouldn’t ever doubt mine or my Mom’s judgement about leftovers again. Hmmm…

I took a chance, and we ate it. I felt queasy for a while, but then we started watching a movie, and I forgot all about it.

Until the next day…

“So, we lived through the night,” my husband said that morning, all smiles. “You didn’t even get so much as a stomach ache. And there’s still some left!”

But now it was nine days old, and there was no way I was taking a chance with that.

Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not trying to remember how old all the leftovers in her fridge are, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

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