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[2]Once home, I popped the package into the microwave as directed, and chowed down. It actually tasted pretty good, and the "meatless" meat had the same texture of conventional chili. So far, so good. But about thirty or forty minutes later, some strange digestive music started playing inside my orchestra pit. The notes were persistent and percussive, the composition echoing throughout my alimentary auditorium. Since there was nothing remotely resembling belching or heartburn, however, I continued to listen to this Great Gurgling Overture without alarm.
Another ten minutes passed. I attempted to watch a college basketball game. The teams were evenly matched, and the competition was fierce, but it seemed the players on television were not the only ones in danger of fouling out. The insistent gurgling increased in frequency and intensity -- whatever it was that had touched off this internal cacophony was apparently going to make its presence known all the way to the main exit.
At halftime I rushed to the pot, ripped down my shorts, and awaited the visceral verdict. Yep, you guessed it. It was Yellow River Asspiss of the nostril-curling variety, a virtual Ni-Agggh-ra Falls, followed by enough gas to float the Hindenburg. As a matter of fact, I felt just like a big, bloated dirigible, crashing to earth, going down in flames.
I gave up on the second half of the basketball game after several more visits to the toilet became necessary. I had succeeded in turning my bathroom into a gas chamber. When it finally appeared my bowels had nothing more to give to the charitable commode that received its offerings, I decided to retrace my steps. I almost never have these kinds of stomach upsets; where had I gone wrong?
In the past ninety minutes, I had consumed the following: the soy-based chili, a glass of orange juice, and a slice of angel food cake with fresh blueberries. I had washed the blueberries, so they didn't seem the likely culprit. The cake, which was basically egg whites, sugar and flour, also seemed benign. The orange juice was a pasteurized, fresh-squeezed, not-from-concentrate variety that had never even made me so much as fart in the past. So it had to be the meatless chili.
I was disappointed. It had tasted so good, and I'd never had any problem digesting soy products before. In a rush of inspiration, I retrieved the empty package from the trashcan and looked it over carefully. I had followed the microwave instructions precisely. Nothing there.
Then, just when I was about to toss the package back into the trash, I spotted the expiration dates along the bottom. "Purchase before January 12th, 2005," it told me. Uh, oh. I had completely missed the date when examining the package in the store. I am always careful to check expiration dates on milk and other dairy products, but it didn't occur to me that meatless chili would have that short of a shelf life.
I paid for my oversight with a speedracing shit that I won't soon forget. But I haven't sworn off soy products. I have, however, learned my lesson -- overlooking expiration dates can turn the fine print into a fine sprint. So double-checking for them can't hurt you.
And, yes, for the record, I got my money back from the store, without giving them the gory details.