|"My husband rinses his ham."|
My husband rinses his ham.
It all began in our kitchen a few years ago while Bob and I were having a mindless chat about oh, let’s say my obsession with Amazon Prime.
“Why do you buy fourteen pairs of shoes at a time?” he asked.
“I’m only keeping a couple of them. What’s the big deal?”
“Marianne, the big deal is that you blow up our credit card and even though you ‘only keep a couple of them’ the other dozen sit on our bill until you muster the strength to pack them up and take them to the UPS Store.”
“C’mon, Bob! Think about how much money I save us when I get a refund for the shoes I’ve returned!”
Somewhere in the midst of my completely illogical defense that I make money by returning shoes, the doorbell rang.
“Oooh… Amazon Prime!” I squealed as I ran to the front door.
When I popped back into the kitchen Bob had obviously started making himself lunch. I knew because he had all his fave fixings, Sandwich Slims, Pepper Rings, spicy mustard, sunflower seeds, lettuce and toasted bread lined up in an anal retentive protocol usually reserved for the coronation of a king. What was missing was the meat.
That’s when I noticed Bob was at the sink holding several slices of deli ham under the faucet.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I see that. But, why? Why are you rinsing your ham?”
“Because it’s slimy.”
“Oh my God, Bob, you can’t eat that. It’s gone bad. Throw it out!”
“No way. I rinsed it. It’s fine. I do this all the time” he said as he popped a slice into his mouth.
He rinsed off a couple more putrid slices and stacked them on his sandwich. As he took a giant bite I stared, waiting for him to convulse, retch, go pale, something.
Not taking any chances I called 911.
“My husband just poisoned himself with a ham sandwich.”
“Stay calm, ma’am. Can you tell us how old the ham was?”
“I don’t know. 10 days, maybe 2 weeks. Please, you have to hurry.”
“Do you know if it was slimy when he ate it?”
“Yes. Yes, it was slimy…viscous, actually. Is he going to die?”
“He could get sick depending on how much ham he ate and whether or not he rinsed it first.”
“What? Rinsed it? Yes, he did, but wait, is that a thing? Who the hell rinses their ham?”
“I do all the time. Drives my wife crazy. Look, I suggest you calm down and keep an eye on him. He should be fine. If not, call us back.”
Bob survived. This time.
Then one day while chatting with our friends, Craig and Mika, I asked if they had viscous ham issues.
Mika rolled her eyes, “Craig’s like Bob. Eats anything— just like a frat boy.”
“Hey!” Craig protested. “There’s nothing wrong with the ham. I just give it a quick rinse. But, hey, if it’s really gone bad, you know, BBG bad as Mika calls it, I’ll chuck it.”
“BBG bad?” I asked.
“That’s Mika’s term for something so foul even he won’t eat it. BBG… Beyond Bob Goen!”
That’s when I gave up trying to save Bob’s life and promised myself I would never again prevent a man from rinsing his ham.