Hooboy, thanks for bringing that to my attention after I finished eating. What kind of sicko lets you clean your plate, then springs that horrifying news on you? I suppose you’ll also point out what I actually ate, too. Well, don’t. That’s something I don’t need to know. Just keep it to yourself and we’ll never speak of this again. Ever.
Frankly, knowledge in these situations is unnecessary and upsetting. The details tend to make matters worse. Trust me, what’s called for here is ignorance — ignorance is bliss. Seek it, cherish it. Don’t look too closely or ask too many questions. The safest course is to steer clear of the chilis and stews, jambalaya, mysterious things of that nature, and stick with the consommé.
Personally, I’m ready to stop eating altogether. And drinking. What with the E. coli outbreak at Chipotle, the leaded drinking water in Michigan, and did you hear about the woman who found a fingertip in her Chinese Chicken Salad at Applebee’s? Yep. In California. And the fingertip thing isn’t an isolated incident, either.Meals regularly come with a surprise, they’re like Cracker Jacks. Except the surprises aren’t good ones. Nobody bites into a winning lottery ticket or cracks a tooth on an adjustable diamond ring. Heavens no, the extra ingredients tend to be body parts and Band-Aids, dead rodents, hair and glass eyes. Today’s special, apparently, is whatever’s on hand at the Lost and Found window.
Years ago there was a persistent rumor about employees peeing in the pickle barrel at a local burger joint. To this day I don’t eat pickles unless I’ve fished them out of the jar myself and even then I’m anxious and queasy. The sniff test is too unreliable and inconclusive to set my mind completely at ease, but I love a good dill, you know? I wish I didn’t, but I do. That’s the price I pay.
So until we can afford personal food tasters — like Louis XVI or Vladimir Putin — we’ll have to take our chances. Or become farmers.