This eight-pack of crunchy tacos shells expired in December 2018.
It’s January 2023 at the moment
I discovered them while searching my disheveled cupboard for Dijon mustard this morning.
It’s 10:10. Make a wish. Any time the hour and minute match, you’re entitled to a deep breath and a wish. But I digress.
The taco shells were purchased aspirationally sometime in 2017 or 2018 under the pretext there would be a taco night.
There never was.
All these years, I’ve moved the box aside as I’ve selected other items. These taco shells made a move from the city to the ‘burbs.
Now they’re being thrown out.
When I unboxed the shells, a greasy film was transferred to my fingers — grease that likely accumulated at our old house, which lacked a range hood vent.
Embarrassingly I tried to pass off some gluten-free cornbread mix to a friend the other day. That friend declined after noticing the July 2022 expiration date.
I hate that I do this. I bristle as I think about “my” spot for putting all the random stuff that has no place. Many households have a drawer. I have a drawer, a countertop next to the fish tank, and a pile next to my bed.
I’m anxious because of work, the economy, and the Russia-Ukraine war. I got off social media but now overuse slack, talk too long in meetings, and spend no less than an hour daily scrolling news headlines on my phone. Last night I watched YouTube “shorts” for 90 minutes. For those 90 minutes, it was like I didn’t exist. I even failed to get a second greyhound cocktail.
Back to the taco shells. Do I Marie Kondo them and “thank” them for their presence in my life? Thank them for the promise of an eminent taco night? Thank them for being a rock in a sea of shifting foods and thoughts through two job changes, the COVID pandemic, the birth of two children, the deaths of two grandparents, and the four untimely deaths of male acquaintances in their late sixties?
Still, those taco shells were there, but tomorrow they will not be.
