You’ve already heard—or so I assume—that there is a salmonella outbreak linked to peanut butter. Whether you have or haven’t heard, Dr. Charles posts the health notice sent to physicians by the CDC and FDA.
I’m here to tell you the rumors are true.
You see, I have two jars of Peter Pan peanut butter, both of which have batch numbers that start with 2111. One is unopened; the other was opened yesterday before I learned of the recall.
Last evening I grabbed a banana and a jar of peanut butter, sat on the floor where I could lounge with The Kids, and enjoyed a tasty treat: peanut butter on my banana.
If I had only known…
This morning I’m here to tell you, poppets, that the peanut butter is in fact a harbinger of doom, a ghostly apparition of terror secretly unleashing bowel unpleasantness in its wake. It ain’t been pretty at all.
My trauma started once I got out of bed this morning. It’s like it waited for me to stand up and move around before making its presence known. But oh how it made its presence known…
Much to my chagrin and surprise this morning, I glanced at the news and was greeted first thing by large headlines vehemently screeching about a national epidemic of gastrointestinal distress innocuously tucked away inside jars of tasty peanut butter.
Bent over though I was as I struggled against my own body’s revolt, I made my way to the kitchen, grabbed those jars of Peter Pan, and quickly checked the batch numbers on the lids.
That number is forever seared into my mind—and belly.
So whatever you do, don’t eat the peanut butter. I assure you it’s not worth it.