A couple of months ago, my parents brought me back a jar of Chow Chow from Lancaster. In case you don’t know, this is an Amish specialty, a kind of pickled/preserved vegetable side dish. And I love it. And I can’t eat it. See, I am super duper afraid of botulism. More specifically, I am afraid of eating badly canned food and dying a sudden, violent, embarrassing death. I mean, what kind of a garbage deal is it for my husband to have to tell people for the rest of his life, “Oh, my first wife? She died young. She ate bad Chow Chow.” He would be forced to make up some alternate explanation for my demise, which feels unfair.
So the Chow Chow is still sitting on the fridge shelf. I don’t know. Maybe, one of these days, I’ll just go for it and…chow down. Surely, by now, if this particular batch of the stuff was bad, I would have heard on the news about some other unfortunate consumer who ate it and promptly bit the dust. Surely, by now, someone out there has unknowingly acted as my personal cup bearer by tasting it first. Right? Of course right. Maybe I’ll have some tomorrow.