This phrase was the wifi password at a friend’s house. A nerdy friend. Why is this nerdy, and not, say, vegetarian? Bad bad beef uses only the first six letters of the alphabet. In hexadecimal, badbadbeef is 802549513967. Fascinating.
The last few days, the phrase is on repeat in my head.
Tuesday night I cooked some ground beef for dinner. It was…marginal. Not spoiled beyond consumption, but on its way. DH and I ate it with plenty of salt and didn’t save the leftovers.
Food spoilage isn’t a big problem for me. I’m a good planner. It surprised me that Tuesday’s beef was bad. I bought it on Sunday.
Where is this story going, you might be asking. Hexadecimal, domestic tasks, questionable judgment. What’s going on?
I bought that ground beef on Sunday afternoon. At the Table Mesa King Soopers in Boulder. Almost exactly 24 hours before a maniac opened fire and killed a bunch of people there. Did he have a bad bad beef? We don’t yet know.
My kitchen cabinets are stocked with staples from that store. Almonds. Popcorn kernels. Seasoned salt. And in the refrigerator, the other perishables I bought Sunday. A flank steak. Shredded cheddar. Lettuce. Too many reminders of the bad bad beef.