The Prude has been fighting the same battle since the beginning of her marriage.
The battle over undercooked meat.
Her only weapon?
A meat thermometer.
When young, starry-eyed Prude first met her husband, she noted that he would, on passing a quantity of raw hamburger on the counter, pinch off a bit and consume it.
The enamored Prude was horrified by the carnage but didn’t step into the fray till she was legitimately entitled to participate in the conflict. In other words, till Mr. Prude said ‘I do’ and white-gowned Prude said ‘I will’
Thence commenced the eternal battle between flavor and safety.
The Prude would allow her family to eat only meat that reached 165 degrees on her meat thermometer.
Meatloaves, cooked to 165 degrees according to Prude’s thermometer, resembled, in size and mass (although not value) a gold brick.
Foot-long hot dogs shrunk to the size of cocktail eenies (the dropped ‘w’ is not a typo. The Prude hates that word).
Chicken breasts at 165 degrees were of a dryness so incredible that the meat would stick in the Prude Family’s throat and couldn’t be dislodged without copious amounts of Crisco.
But did the Prude, her husband, or children ever suffer from salmonella, trichinosis, or gastroenteritis?
Never. And don’t listen when they complain about trips to the emergency room for poultry meat stuck in their gullets or hamburger patties eaten in 2002 that have taken up permanent residence in their digestive systems. They are inclined to hyperbole.
This past weekend The Prude made an astounding and earth-shaking discovery.
Her only weapon in the war on food borne illnesses- her meat thermometer- has never been calibrated. It is 20 degrees off.
Please don’t tell her family.