With Reckless Abandon, That's How I Treat My Stomach

What did someone say about me? I'm hopelessly optimistic when it comes to mystery food? I think that was it.

Alright, what the score on the number of times I've (wrongly) chosen to eat mystery food vs. how many times I walked away?

Weird food in unmarked container in cheese section at grocery store? Tried it. Regretted it.

Rancid cranberry juice that looked, smelled, nor tasted like anything that should be imbibed? Drank it. Really regretted it.

Mysterious candy-looking thing hidden beneath tomatoes at grocery store? Walked away…begrudgingly (Suddenly, I have that Boston song, "Don't Look Back" running through my head).

So, up until this Thursday, I was 2-1 on bad ideas (this, or course, does not count any of the concoctions I made as a kid because I was curious what it might taste like to mix milk, grape juice, and Sunkist soda together. I can now tell you that it is totally gross).

One would hope that on Thursday, I leveled the playing field. But that would be very unlike me.

So what happened? Well, gather around for a doozy of a tale!

On Thursday, my mom and I dined at a fancy Mexican place at the mall ('cause that's what fancy people do in Oklahoma City). I ordered a delicious chicken mole enchilada meal. It was quite tasty, but it was also entirely too much food. Even though I knew we were going to the mall immediately after lunch and that it was 90 degrees outside, I asked for a box.

My mom laughed at me, "Uhh, you don't have anywhere to put that. It will ruin."

"I know. Normally, I would just give it to a homeless person, but they don't seem to hang out at the mall here."

"Well," she answered. "I guess you'll put it in the car and toss it out when we get home."

"Yeah, I suppose I can't throw it away in the trash can next to the front door of the restaurant."

As we left the restaurant, I put the leftovers in the car and met my mom inside the mall. We shopped for a couple of hours and returned to the car. Upon opening the door, I immediately smelled my food.

"Oh yeah," I said. "I forgot I had this."

"You're not eating that."

"I know. I'm also not giving it to a homeless person because there aren't any."

"Oh, they are here, but you don't want to give them food that will make them sick." My mom continued. "We do have a big homeless population now. You'd be surprised."

"No, I wouldn't. I live in San Francisco. You don't have a problem here. Trust me."

We drove home, and once we got back into the garage, my mom instructed me to take the leftovers and throw them away. I carried them into the house with my new clothes. Since my hands were full of bags, I decided to go straight to my room instead of stopping off at the trash in the kitchen.

Once in my room, safely hidden from view, I opened the leftovers, and I ate the chicken. It was delicious. And I never got sick.

I should be afraid of food poisoning, especially considering the fact that I know, without a doubt, that I suffered from it a couple of months ago (and it wasn't due to eating mystery food either…I will not reveal the source of the sickness as I promised never to speak of it again, after speaking of it at length on several occasions). But alas, I continue to tempt fate.

It's just the way I am.