My dog has a new nickname: Pot Roast.
On Monday, when I’d finally gone to the supermarket to do the “big shopping” (after weeks of successful postponement, mind you), I dragged half the groceries inside and placed them on the kitchen floor. I knew right then and there that this was a mistake, because the kitchen is my dog’s bedroom, and who can pass up breakfast in bed?
Ignoring my better judgment, I left the groceries (including a package of chicken, a package of ground turkey, and a set of buy one, get one free chuck roasts) and went back out to the car. When I opened the minivan hatch, 2 pints of grape tomatoes tumbled down and out, ultimately spilling royally and scattering all over my driveway. I’m not sure whether asphalt is (a) food safe and (b) rinsable with water, but I figured that at 5 bucks for the 2 pints, I’m willing to take my chances.
When I returned to the kitchen with the rest of the groceries and my salvaged grape tomatoes, what do I find? Yup, it’s a chuck roast, sans bag or wrapper, lying in the middle of my kitchen floor, with one miniature dachshund standing by with a “Where’d that come from?” kind of look.
I hesitated, but I’ll admit that I picked that thing up, rinsed it off, and started heating up a pan, as if some version of the three second (three minute?) rule applied to a piece of meat that was exposed to both floor germs and dog cooties. Besides, the heat would burn “it” off, right?
But then, I had visions of the newly mutated canine flu overtaking the swine strain and wiping out entire cities, with patient zero being a former columnist and blogger from Dover, Delaware who was too cheap to toss the contaminated foodstuff. I pictured my minister putting a “she was always a frugal gal” spin on my funeral, knowing full well that I sleep with an electric blanket uneconomically cranked up to 11 from September to May. And I thought of my dear, recently deceased grandfather, who, in an episode completely unrelated to his death, once soaked his Thanksgiving turkey in the stationary tub where the dirty laundry rinse water drains.
So, telling myself that the pot roast on the floor was the free one, I chucked it. Sad but necessary, especially considering that my dog’s mouth may have been on it…and you don’t want to know what I know about where that mouth has been.
Let me tell you, though, I’m keeping those tomatoes. Driveway be darned—a little tar never hurt anybody.