For months now, perhaps years, I’ve been in a massive calendar funk. Disoriented. Discombobulated. I pull from my limited mental energy reserves to stay connected to the day of the week or the season and remind myself every few days that it’s 2025.
I’ll pass seasonal displays in the store and think, “Why are they moving my Reese’s Cup Trees to the clearance aisle?” Oh. Because we already had Christmas.
Or I’ll see a display and think, “Why have they not put the Cadbury Eggs on clearance?” Oh. Right. We haven’t had Easter yet.
Last week, I bought a bag of frozen chicken and tossed it in the deep freeze. Two days ago, I bought another and tossed it in the deep freeze.
Or at least this is what I think, but I also thought last year it was 2001, and last month may have been 2020 (help us all).
Last night (or maybe last week by now, hard to tell) the Hubs said chicken sounded good.
I got that covered—not the cooking part, that’s another beast, but the ingredient? I’ve got a stockpile of chicken.
After all, I bought a bag just the other day.
I went out to the freezer and was a little surprised that I had to dig the bag of chicken out. I mean, I just bought it; it should’ve been on the top. I set aside a frozen pizza, which I do remember buying two days ago, and a lemon pie, which I can’t recall purchasing at all because I thought the Hubs had already consumed it.
Yet, here it is.
I forgive myself for the memory lapse. I did full-on dissociate last summer and ended up with Star Wars Oreos (I was the Dark Side, by the way). I had no recollection of how they got to the house. I say this in all honesty. No idea. Like check the receipt and hope I didn’t steal them kind of not remembering.
To be clear, this memory issue is a completely different defect from buying chocolate intentionally, hiding the stash in various nooks and crannies, and then discovering it at a later date. In these instances, I’m like, “Yup. Did that.”
The Oreos? Nope. No memory or intent to buy/hide/stash that particular pack of cookies.
Anyway, the first bag of frozen chicken breasts I come across felt… crunchy. Lots and lots of ice in that bag. I checked the date. “Best by 8/10/2024.”
Oooh. I’m not willing to take this risk. And all that crunching…
I recall not too long ago, perhaps twelve years ago, baking Bridgerton desserts with ancient sugar and two-year-past-the-date oil. That turned out okay, but let’s not push our luck.
Throw in my chaotic culinary skills and this was a no-go.
I had to toss the bag.
I found the second “more recently purchased” bag crumpled deeper in the freezer. Checked the Best By date. The tiny black print elevated off the bag, floated in front of my face, and audibly begged, “Just throw my crusty carcass in the bin.”
So I did. With a cringe and more than a little self-scolding to pay attention and stop “Oreo-ing” out.
Perhaps I can get some not-on-sale Cadbury eggs and pass them off as chicken. Or breakfast…
I won’t tell you what happened when I did a full-scale spring clean of my cupboards, cabinets, and refrigerator.
Best By.
Use By.
Enjoy By.
Turns out I can Blow By all those dates in the blink of an eye.
(For those concerned, I made Hubs some freshly bought chicken. Full disclosure: He had to remind me that I was cooking—twice. But no emergency rooms were needed, so we balanced out the risk/reward thing.)
As I type this, I’m indulging in Lindor Neapolitan Truffles. The thought dawns on me to check the date. Was this a freshly bought treat or one I “Oreo’d” out on?
Best By 08/31/25.
Phew. That’s good because I’d likely risk the ER for these glorious little balls. And no worries at all about getting close to that Best By date. This bag won’t live to see Monday.
I’m so glad books don’t have Best By dates.
Or Expiration Dates.
Or Enjoy By dates.
Could you imagine what would happen to our To Be Read piles if they did?
You’re finally in the mood for that fantasy you’ve been eyeing on the shelf, only to find out the wings melted off the fairies, and the dragon charred the words off the last five chapters two months ago.
Or perhaps romance is more your thing, but your life got in the way. By the time you pick up the book, the love interests redacted their names and backstories seven weeks ago and moved to opposite sides of the globe.
That psychological thriller? You didn’t consume it the day you bought it. Now? Page after page of a reformed villain who has opened a quaint little bed and breakfast in Missouri, where one day is exactly the same as the next. The biggest challenge he faces is the expired chicken in his deep freeze.
When this blog goes live, it’ll be airplane day and the beginning of a week-long trip. Unlike books and more like bags of frozen chicken, we are getting older and have a “Best Enjoy This Kind of Thing Before The Date Comes When You Can’t” kind of bodies.
Best to explore the country before the crust sets in and our joints are too crunchy to maneuver forests and rocky inclines.
In prepping, I discovered my old Kindle still holds a charge even though I’d not updated it since 2016. (See? I’ve been MIA from my own existence for years…)
I’ve loaded it with various genres of delight, careful to watch the meager storage space for offline reading.
Just to be sure it wasn’t sneaking past expiration, I opened the fantasy title that I swore I’d start on the plane.
Just a page or two.
But much like the Lindor truffles, it won’t live to see the runway—just in case I’m wrong about that Best By date and the dragon decides to char the words from the last five chapters.
