Husband can’t eat in other people’s homes. He can eat in restaurants. He can eat from food trucks or roach coaches as we called them in California. He can eat on planes – even things he hates on planes – but he can’t eat in other people’s homes. It’s one of his many quirks that I love. Okay, don’t really love the inconvenience of the quirk but I do love the drama it brings.
Sometimes I understand it. The house could be messy. The cat could be on the counter where the food is prepped. The chef could be a picker – nose or butt. But most of the time, I’m not sure why he can’t eat in other people’s homes I just know he can’t.
Yesterday I made cookies in my brand new oven and took them to this place I go often to share with friends. I brought them into the tiny room that serves as a storage area, break area and bathroom and left them sitting on a paper plate, wrapped in saran wrap on top of the microwave. At one point, I realized I’d forgotten to write that they were up for grabs. I mentioned this to Betty – not her real name.
“These are the first things I baked in my new oven.” I said proudly. “They’re from a mix but whatever, I baked them!”
She smiled and continued to search for whatever she was looking for in the boxes on the shelf above the microwave as I wrote my note about the cookies.
And then one of the boxes fell off the shelf; hit the plate on it’s way down and tossed the cookies onto the floor and into a bucket of toys. As Betty picked up the contents of the box, I picked up the plate and what cookies I could find and threw cookies and plate into the trash.
Betty asked me what I was doing.
“They were on the floor.” I said. “I threw them away. It’s fine. They were from a mix.”
I went back to searching for cookies among the bucket of toys. When I stood, Betty, feeling bad that my baking effort had gone to waste was pulling the cookies out of the trashcan, putting them back on the plate. The trashcan that is RIGHT NEXT TO THE TOILET!
“What are you doing?” I asked in horror.
“These are still good.” Said Betty.
Now, the trash bag was a relatively empty bag but it was in a trashcan. And that trashcan was RIGHTNEXTTOTHETOILET!!!
And the folks that use that toilet constantly flush it with the lid up. Meaning all pieces of fecal matter and urine fly up in the air and into and around the room and into that trash bag. And no matter how clean the bag had been, I know someone had flushed the toilet minutes before we were in there so the cookies would have been covered by little tiny CSI pieces of poo and pee.
I grabbed that plate and threw it back into the trash while whisper shouting, “People poo in toilet right there! And then they don’t flush it with the lid down and the poo goes up in the air and it’s all over the cookies and I can’t have people eat cookies with poo on them and ew ew ew...!”
Yes, the whisper shouting was a bit melodramatic and over the top. What do you expect? There was poo involved. But I understand now why Husband can’t eat in other people’s homes. And I’m pretty sure that the next time we’re invited somewhere, and Husband brings his own food, I’m going to have to bring mine too.
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me