While plumbing the deepest, darkest regions of our pantry for quick supper ideas tonight, my wife discovered an ancient artifact not seen by mortals for uncountable years: a mysterious can of applesauce that expired April 7, 2011.
We don’t recognize the brand. Neither of us remembers buying it. I didn’t even know applesauce could be legally packaged in anything besides glass jars. If someone gifted it to us, their moot kindness was forgotten long ago.
For a moment I wondered if it was haunted — cursed, even. Maybe this applesauce belonged to the previous homeowner, who ran away from it screaming because it brought death and destruction to him and his loved ones, a sort of fruit-flavored monkey’s paw straight from the grocer’s clearance aisle.
Midlife Crisis Crossover! 