Every year for Valentine’s Day, my husband and I make cookies. We’ve done it now seven times. Of course, with each anniversary comes a recounting from the husband about the previous year’s events, including the cookie-making extravaganza. Twice when we lived in the Garden District bungalow and now five times in our current house.
This Valentine’s Day our cookies came out perfectly. And when the news of peanut butter salmonella outbreaks hit the internet and the television, we blew it off, because we heard it was Peter Pan, and we buy the ghetto brand, Great Value. Well, lo and behold, we have two jars of potentially contaminated peanut butter — bin 2111 — , one of which we used in our cookies. We are waiting to start throwing up. The husband, of course, feels sick now that he knows he’s supposed to be sick. The saddest thing about this whole peanut butter affair is that I have so little going on in my nice quiet life, that I have nothing else to blog about.