I was mildly perturbed at Alan this evening when he wouldn't let me eat expired sour cream with my dinner. We were making a variety of appetizer-type things (potato skins, boneless buffalo wings, etc.) and I of course wanted sour cream with the potato skins. There are certain foods that I only eat as a conveyance for the other food I really want, like potato skins as a conveyance for sour cream, cake as a conveyance for icing, orange juice as a conveyance for champagne, plastic tubing as a conveyance for cookie dough...

Anyway, I freely admit that I am a Sour Cream Pig and there was a sealed, unopened carton in the fridge which, upon examination, had expired at the end of September but I opened it and it was lovely and white, sweet-smelling and tasted okay when I put a tiny, minuscule dollop on my tongue. But Alan caught me and got all old-womany and freaky and made me throw it away.

"But it's MY stomach! I'm willing to risk it!" I whined.

"And just who is going to have to hold your hair back when you're up all night throwing up?"

Wuss.

I caved in and ate NAKED potato skins with only melted cheese and bacon and pepper. Bleah. Ah, well, compromise is key in a successful marriage.