We were maybe going to go out for dinner last night (for a big fat change), but my husband was suddenly gripped by a summer virus. (Why does this always happen the minute I make a reservation?) So I was back to spelunking in the fridge for dinner possibilities.
I stumbled across the remains of a turkey loaf, which had been delicious on Wednesday. It was now Sunday, and, not being as well-acquainted with the breeding habits of bacteria as I should be, I wasn’t sure if the loaf was trustworthy. I gave it the scratch ‘n sniff test and then, still uncertain, I ate a bite, figuring I’d take a bullet for my family. If I dropped dead from bacterial poisoning, I would most likely not be serving them the turkey loaf. I’d make pasta instead. (My family does not accept death as an excuse for not cooking.) Read More