286 - Fixin's


Grandma's refrigerator, a pale green Frigidaire that looks like it predates the Kennedy administration, creaks at the hinges  as you open it. The compressor doesn't so much click as it des thud into operation when the hermetic seal around the door is peeled open.

"There's lunchmeat in the fridge," grandma told you.

Your eyes peruse the shelves of the icebox, coming to a stop on an ancient plastic package containing a staggered stack of sickly grey disks which may have once been salami.

"Grandma," you call out. "This salami is spoiled."

"Oh, those expiration dates don't mean nothin', baby," grandma argues sweetly. "Spoiled's somethin' they made up to keep you going back to the grocery store every week. Helps 'em sell more coupons."

"Grandma, that doesn't make any sense," you reply.

"Doesn't have to! That's the beauty of the whole operation! I read about it in the Enquirer. You should read more. Anyway, cook the meat and make you your sandwich, boy. Man lived a thousand years with parasites in his body, ain't nobody said it was bad for ya until doctors started chargin' for abortions."

You're not a hungry as you thought, apparently.