The Benefits of Eating Expired Food

Sell By dates are. . . suggestions

Just because I eat expired food doesn’t make me a bad human being.

I drink expired milk. I’ve been known to pick chunks of mold off a piece of rye bread. I’d rather drink a mud smoothie than throw out that meat loaf hiding in the container at the back of the fridge. Why are you judging me?

My wife laughs at me. My son and his bride merely gag. They seem to think Sell By is a mandate. I think it’s a suggestion. Use By should read This is When The Bologna Tastes Best. Expiration Dates, I feel, are not warnings. They are hints.

This comes up now because at this very moment, our refrigerator is Tupperware Nation. Beef stew in one plastic tub, fettucine alfredo in another, shrimp and rice in a third. Don’t forget the Swedish meatballs.

The yogurt cups and unopened heavy cream bottles have been in there so long, they got married in January. My wife sees this as a problem.

At our place in Florida just last month, my daughter-in-law discovered a package of chicken in the freezer. Been there since 2014. Truth.

I explained to her I was conducting cryogenics research. Given time, that frozen clot of chicken breasts will come back as Foghorn Leghorn.

Johnny Thinwallet doesn’t like to throw out food. It’s a thinwallet thing. I’m sure you understand. Tossing produce kills me. You notice the price of an orange pepper these days? Tossing meat is like tossing money. Instead of throwing out the frozen steaks from New Year’s Day (2021) just pull $20 from your wallet and set it on fire.

Who’s with me?

Who else has two and only two marriage wars that have lasted longer than Israel-v-Palestine? One is tossing food, the other is setting the thermostat. Kerry can’t see how 64 degrees in winter doesn’t help save the planet. She doesn’t understand me.

Her: It’s expired. I think it’s growing hair.

Me: It’s still good.

I’m merely trying to make life better for all of us. EPA website:

Worldwide we throw out one-third of the food we produce for consumption. In the U.S. 40% of that happens in our own homes when we don't eat what we buy. Uneaten food also contains enough calories to feed more than 150 million people each year.

My conscience won’t allow me to throw out the leftover (from the Super Bowl party) salsa. I’m not a weirdo. I’m a good human being.

Besides, manufacturers benefit from when we throw out old food. If the expiration date is sooner, it is more likely we won't actually finish the product before throwing it out. Therefore causing us to buy more than we would necessarily need. This increases the companies sales and profits. (EPA)

And. . .

Wasted food has a serious environmental impact. Food waste is the single most common material landfilled and incinerated in the U.S., comprising 24 and 22 percent of landfilled and combusted municipal solid waste, respectively.

To recap: Expired food usually isn’t expired. Frozen food won’t kill you. Don’t buy three red peppers when the recipe calls for two. Be a planet-loving Earth Biscuit like me.

Now, then. . .

Do you realize you just spent 700 words writing about spoiled food?

Yes, I do. I regret every last syllable. Would you rather I write about the Patriot League tournament?

SOMEONE EXPLAIN TO ME how a potential NFL player “improves his draft stock’’ by having a nice few days at the Combine.

Are the talent evaluators so unsure of their abilities that a good showing in shorts is going to change their minds about a quasi-am player they’ve supposedly studied for months? “He ran a 7.2 three cone! Love the guy now.’’

Yeah? Last week, you couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. If you’re judging a player by how he looked at the Underwear Olympics, maybe you should ponder a new line of work.

ANNNND. . . One media expert said this about Alabama QB Bryce Young’s Combine absence:

“I would have liked to see him display his competitive nature in front of the country.’’

Yes, 27 starts in the last two years, 79 TD passes, 12 picks and more than 8,000 yards passing in the best conference in America showed us nothing. Young didn’t run the cone drill. Red flag, for sure.

Here’s how The Sporting News explained why the drills at the Combine are so important:

The tests at the NFL Combine are designed to identify the athletic traits that each player possesses and how they line up to what was shown on tape. If they align well, then teams can be confident in their player evaluations.

Wait. The tape is the tape. Isn’t it? Do players or their agents somehow doctor the tape? How do they do that? Why do NFL people need a Combine to verify the tape? It’d be like re-watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid before casting Robert Redford in The Sting, to make sure Redford still had blond hair.

(OG reference, kids. Lookitup.)

Apply this logic to your job. What if, 40 years ago, there were a Combine for hack sports writers? Here’s what they’d say about me:

Spotted wearing a Gold Star T-shirt at Skyline. Indicates potential loyalty issues.

Seen on tape typing 60 words a minute. At the Combine, his best was 45 words a minute. Possible tendon questions in both index fingers.

Refused to eat press box hot dogs, opting instead to pack two PB and Js and a pudding cup. Likely rebel tendencies, possible deviant behavior.

As a sports writer in college, wore his press badge on his shirt, not on his fedora, read Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail during timeouts and refused to call coach “Coach’’ at postgame interviews. Loves Jane Fonda, remembers Country Joe and the Fish. Subversive. Alert the FBI.

As for all the vital measurables. . .

Forty-yard dash times? John Ross was great at those.

Bench press? Say hello to Big Daddy Wilkinson. And goodbye after four years.

Billy Price tore a pectoral muscle at the Combine. The Bengals drafted him, anyway. Maybe they were in love with his 40 times.

ANNNND. . . Are the experts ever held to account when their wisdom is entirely wrong? MelTodd McKiper and their ilk: Where are the stories about all their errant bloviating? I must have missed those, every day for the past three decades.

The Combine is a lot like the league itself: Overblown, overhyped, overly full of itself. Ten pounds of self-importance in a 5-pound bag. A place where coaches and personnel people practice their lying, er, smokescreening, skills, before retreating to expense-account dinners at St. Elmo’s. (Get the shrimp cocktail. It’s to die for.)

At least at, say, Baseball’s winter meetings, actual news is occasionally made. A trade, a free-agent signing, updates on Scott Boras’ latest attempt at world domination. At the Combine, they measure Broad Jumps and sleeve lengths.

TUNE O’ THE DAY. . . Not a big U2 guy. A greatest hits band for me. But this one is good. Ironic, too. This tune is played at lots of weddings. In reality, it’s about breaking up.