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I store leftovers in bowls, like most people, but I also use lots of clear plastic bags. Last night Duff came home quite late. He wanted something to eat and asked me about the tri-tip steak leftovers, and from my lazy chair I directed him to the refrigerator.
The next thing I know he's standing in front of the stove closely inspecting the rolled-up bag.
"This stuff is, like, becoming hamburger!" he announces.
"I think you grabbed the wrong bag," I say, trying not to sound mocking.
But the more I think about it, the funnier it gets, until I've got a full-blown case of the giggles that lasts for a good ten minutes. It's just the idea that a man who has such an easy grasp of difficult subjects, who understands physics and advanced math and political minutiae could be so completely flummoxed by MEAT that he supposes it might have magical transformative powers ... well, it just slays me.
I had to call him "Jessica" then, in reference to the reality-show pop star who famously wasn't sure if Chicken of the Sea tuna was tuna, or chicken.