Rotting Eggs

I went to that big food store Friday night to buy chicken and other foodstuffs for the birthday lunch that I held for #2 son.  When I opened it at home last night to marinate it, this stench filled my kitchen… the stench of ROTTING EGGS.

I have to admit, I am a very emotional person and some things set me off.  Driving 40 minutes out of my way to a store that I consider the “best food store” because of its high grade meats and produce put me OVER the edge last night.

I was tired.  I had spent 5 hours in 96 degree heat and humidity so that I could see my son march in the fire department’s anniversary parade.  We were lucky to find shade, but with the humidity, shade was a tease.  Having the foresight to BRING water helped, but soon we ran out.  Twice we went to the convenience store a block away to pick up gatorade or more water. 

There we sat, under this small elm tree, next to participants of the “Jerry Springer Reject Show,” listening to their tales of drugs, sex, and infidelity slathered with the f-bomb and chainsmoking. 

I have this habit… of watching people.  I’ve had it my entire life.  I like to be in public places and see how people respond to whatever situation arises.  I became a “to watch” person… fanning, standing, pacing, and bitching about the heat.

We waited 90 minutes AFTER the scheduled start time to see the first fire truck round the corner three blocks away.  We sat at the end of the parade route, or rather, near the end.  However, SOMEONE did not explicitly define the “end” of the parade route (even though there were maps online and handed out)… and, in turn, most of the parade’s participants broke rank 1/2-2 blocks from where we (and 50 other people) were sitting.  And, as each group of firemen, marching band, or bag pipe group stopped short of the finish line, I could hear myself saying, “That’s GARBAGE!”

I pulled aside one of the parade route people and asked WHY they were stopping the parade so far from the end.  She was annoyed at the firemen and other groups for “giving up,” but said, “But, it’s HOT out.” 

My rationale is this: YOU ARE FIREMEN…. you PURPOSEDLY go into burning structures loaded with gear and NO ONE bitches about how hot it is.  You get 250 trucks and nearly 100 departments on one 8-block parade route in 90-something heat and humidity and suddenly it’s “too hot.”

So, this parade person walked up TWO blocks to tell them to keep going, but the departments saw her and broke rank and drove down a side street, denying 50+ people (including a lot of children) of the privilege of cheering them on.

ONE DEPARTMENT marched past us before breaking rank… and I am familiar with them from the years my father was a fireman one county and many towns over.  They would host a parade that rivaled our’s.  One year, I remember 2-1/2 hours of sirens, horns, and waving firemen.  Afterwards, a stiff competition for who’s truck was the shiniest and which department looked the spiffiest would culminate a day of festivities that included all-you-can-eat food and drink courtesy of this particular department.  So, naturally, my expectations for their “show” during the parade were high and we were NOT disappointed.  Our OWN department, who hosted this parade, broke rank before reaching the finish line, setting the presidence for over 50 departments to give up and quit up to 2 blocks before finishing the parade.

Now, granted, I would’ve walked into town more so that we wouldn’t have to be subject to this, but… there were no more seat in the limited shade that my main street provides.  And, to top it off, ALL streets into town (but, oddly, not OUT of town) were closed.  No matter how you look at it, we’d have to walk 5-6 blocks in.

And, we wanted to go to the town park to partake in free food… an homage to our department’s dedication and service (125 years, to be clear)… even if it felt like the underbelly of hell.

Midway through the parade, we gave up.  Frustrated that the parade participants were not holding up their part of the bargain and fed up with sweating, we walked three blocks down to the park (the opposite way of the parade route)… and climbed up a hill on a major roadway, over a steep grassy hill, onto the field where two tents, seven large restaurant bbqs and several tables stood… serving hotdogs, hamburgers, chicken, and mayonaise-engrossed salads to sweating, tired people.

It was while I held a plate with a hotdog (relish and mustard, thank you) and some cole slaw (which I threw out because it was warm), I saw a student who graduated from the h.s. I taught at last year.  He is going to school to become a paramedic, and was marching with his town’s First Aid Squad.

“HEY!! Mrs. Herstory!!” he turned and yelled over the speakers (from these giant speakers eminated bad Bon Jovi cover songs sung by a mostly 60-something men who looked like a combo of Ernest Hemingway and Jimmy Buffet wannabes)… “I’d hug you,” he said, “but I’m all sweaty.”

“We’re ALL sweaty,” I laughed.

“What are YOU doing here,” he said looking around.

“Welcome to MY town…” I said waving my arm behind me, “My son is a junior on the department that is throwing this fine shin-dig.

“Excellent,” he said. And, with that, I let him go back to his squad so they could ingest food and slurp down WARM water our guys were passing out at the entrance gate.

(By the way, we had to PAY for mugs to get soda… and if you wanted to partake in the BEER GARDEN, the cost of a glass was $10… and considering the incredible heat, we opted for the soda and warm water.)

When we arrived at the soda truck, it became OBVIOUS that the guy pumping soda from the truck was MY son.  Moreover, he was pumping icy cold ROOT BEER in such a manner that the mugs contained 1/4 rootbeer and 3/4 foam.  UGH!  When it was my turn to have my little red mug filled with rootbeer, I whispered to him that he should TILT the mug so less foam is created.  He said, “NO, mom… I know what I’m doing.”  (Spoken by a kid who explodes seltzer when he opens the bottles.)  “[#1 son],” the chief said (who was standing next to him), “Let me show you how to do it.”  With that, he tilted the mug, pulled it down from the nozzle and back up… resulting in a 3/4-filled mug of soda.  Viola!  Perfection!

(See? I wrote “Viola” for piltdownman… showing that I can spell it correctly.  *grins*)

Needless to say, after 5 hours of sweating and sunburning, I was in NO mood for chicken that smelled like rotting eggs.  My husband kept saying, “Maybe it’s ok. Maybe chicken thighs smell like this.”  I shot him a look that said, “STUPID!”

I called the store and spoke with the manager… they were shocked and dismayed that *I* purchased less than perfect meat from their store… for their company PRIDES themselves with their freshness.  Today, after everyone left, I brought that disgusting smelling chicken TO their store… suffering through 95 degree heat (at 5pm) to deliver this meat back and receive a refund.

Did I mention that the gas station at my house is now charging $3.85/3.98 for regular?  (Remember, the second number is for CREDIT CARD purchases.)  By this particular food store, it was $4.25-4.50 a gallon.  I drove 40 minutes EACH WAY to deliver back disgusting food.  In all, it was a major inconvenience and I (nicely) mentioned this to the manager who said, “We’re sorry.”

What if I had served this meat?  Could I have given salmonella or something even WORSE to my guests?  What if someone got sick or… DIED?  At least, throw me a bone for driving so far to return this meat (which, in total, cost about $17)… when I could have just as easily thrown it out without even a mention.

I’m all about looking out for others… and wanted EVERYONE to know to not buy this meat, which could be smelled through ziplock bags and three layers of plastic store bags.  At least, everyone within a 3 foot radius of me (I’m not my mother, so therefore, I didn’t drag a box in and jump on it, yelling at the top of my lungs that this meat was bad and it came from THIS store… SMELL it if you don’t believe me…)

The manager, a nice woman around my age, snarled when she opened the FIRST of a series of plastic-bag barriers (sorry, it’s hard to be GREEN when you’re trying to prevent rotting meat smell from escaping)… and said, “Oh my, this IS bad.”

Yeah.  It IS bad.  So, what are you going to do about it?

She called the meat dept. manager to ask him if he removed the meat.  The Meat Dept. Manager didn’t answer his phone OR his pages.  She looked a bit annoyed and added that she would grab him later.

LATER?

There were at LEAST 4 other packages on the shelf on Friday night.  What if someone bought THOSE?

I love this “store chain” even though this particular location is my least favorite.  We usually drive 15 minutes longer to get to the NEXT one because it is nicer by far.  But, I was trying to get the meat and go home, not wanting to linger around to sample the food on display or purchase food to eat in their dining area.  I was alone.  I was tired.  I wanted to get the food and go home.

Last night, I ran over to the local food store and picked up TWO large packages of boneless thigh meat.  When I got home, ONE of the packages smelled like rotting eggs.

What the HELL?

My husband sensed my angst and took the chicken back, getting a replacement that did not smell at all.

And, today, I grilled the chicken after marinating it OVERNIGHT in olive oil, garlic, cumin, cilantro, salt and pepper.  It was YUMMY and nary a smell of funky.

My lesson this weekend?  Never accept something that is less than fabulous or it will make you sick.