Got some eggs out of the fridge this morning, but they’d expired.
At least, according to the date on the carton.
My husband — who thinks “expiration dates are a government scam” — insisted they were fine.
Meanwhile, I was standing there, spatula in hand, imagining the news headline:
“Local Woman Hospitalized After Ignoring Expiration Date Because Husband Said So.”
He rolled his eyes.
“They’re eggs, not uranium,” he said.
“Smell them. If they don’t stink, they’re fine.”
I refused. I didn’t want to smell anything that might send me running to the ER.
The Test Begins
So, he grabbed one.
He cracked it open dramatically, like he was on a cooking show.
The yolk slid out perfectly. No smell, no slime.
He looked at me, smirking.
“See? Perfectly good. People these days just believe whatever’s printed on a box.”
I crossed my arms.
“Just because it looks fine doesn’t mean it is fine. Salmonella doesn’t come with a warning label.”
He shrugged, whisked the eggs, and started frying them up — whistling like a man who believed he was proving a great point to history.
Breakfast Tension
The smell filled the kitchen — and, honestly, it smelled fine.
Golden, fluffy, perfectly cooked.
He slid a plate toward me.
“Here. Taste perfection.”
I stared at the eggs like they were radioactive material.
He took a bite first — slow, exaggerated, dramatic — like he was testing poison to prove his love.
“See? Delicious,” he said, mouth full. “Tastes like freedom from overreacting.”
I sighed and took a bite.
And yes… they were good. Maybe even great.
Two Hours Later
He was fine. I was fine. Everything seemed okay.
Until… about two hours later.
We were at the grocery store, halfway through the produce aisle, when he suddenly froze.
His face went pale.
He grabbed his stomach.
Then came the words no woman ever wants to hear in public:
“Uh… I don’t feel so good.”
The Great Grocery Store Incident
Before I could ask what he meant, he bolted — sprinting down the aisle like an Olympic athlete who just remembered something urgent.
I followed him, calling his name, only to find him in the store restroom, pounding on the locked door and yelling, “Occupied!”
I stood outside, arms crossed, trying to hold in both laughter and vindication.
A few minutes later, a voice — weak and regretful — floated through the door.
“Maybe they were a little old.”
The Aftermath
We got home an hour later. He was pale, humbled, and sipping ginger ale like a man recovering from a great war.
I didn’t say “I told you so.” I didn’t have to.
The silence said it for me.
Later that evening, I found him at the kitchen counter, staring at the remaining eggs like they’d personally betrayed him.
He looked up at me and said, dead serious,
“From now on, if it says expired, we bury it.”
But Then Came the Twist
Two days later, I was making lunch when I noticed something odd.
The expiration date on the egg carton… wasn’t actually past due.
I looked closer.
The carton said “Best By: 11/16” — not “Use By.”
It was the 13th.
They hadn’t expired after all.
I froze. My jaw dropped.
I realized I might have started an entire marital Cold War… over perfectly fine eggs.
Confession Time
That night, I sat next to him on the couch.
“Hey,” I said softly, “remember the eggs?”
He gave me a suspicious look. “Yeah?”
“Well…” I hesitated. “Turns out they weren’t expired.”
He blinked.
Then he burst out laughing — loud, uncontrollable laughter that shook the whole couch.
Between gasps he managed,
“So you started World War Egg… over nothing?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Excuse me for prioritizing our safety.”
He leaned closer, still grinning.
“And I suppose the Great Grocery Store Incident was divine punishment?”
Peace Restored
We ended up laughing together until our sides hurt.
He teased me for the rest of the night — calling me “Eggzilla” and “The Date Police.”
But when he made breakfast the next morning, he checked every single date label — twice.
And I didn’t say a word.
Because sometimes, marriage isn’t about being right.
It’s about knowing when to let the other person think they were.
Moral of the Story
Never underestimate expired eggs… or a woman’s intuition.
And maybe, just maybe — before you start a household debate — double-check the fine print.
Because sometimes, the battle you’re fighting isn’t against spoiled eggs…
It’s against your own pride.
