I am my father’s daughter.  My dad was probably the finest man I’ve ever known, so this statement is undeservedly complimentary to me.  But along with his many sterling qualities, Dad did have some quirks which I seem to have inherited.

Let me explain.

Every 20 years or so, “experts” announce a new calamity looming on the horizon which will mean the end of mankind if WE DON’T TOTALLY CHANGE OUR EVIL WAYS IMMEDIATELY!  70 years ago it was the Cold War, which would make the Russians drop the bomb.  55 years ago it was overpopulation, which would cause massive food shortages.   In the last 20 years it has been global warming, or climate change, or whatever they call it lately, which will cause the icecaps to melt.

Most are old enough to remember the doomsday scenario every news outlet gravely warned of 25 years ago – a little thing called Y2K. For the younger set and those who lived under a rock at the time, none of the supposed experts across the globe knew quite how computers would react when their internal clocks hit Year 2000.  It seemed they were programmed for two digit years like 99, and might not know what to do with 00. We were told to prepare for electrical grids failing, lights going out, cats and dogs living together, the end of civilization as we know it.  Possibly. 

This seemed unlikely, but what did I know?  My computer knowledge was limited to punching cards to run rudimentary programs for the mandatory Fortran computer class I took in college.  The computer language was replaced by Basic the very next semester (I’m not even exaggerating here,) which rendered my education obsolete before the ink had dried on the check I used to pay for it.  Even more tragically, this meant I couldn’t sell my $150+ Fortran textbook back to the college bookstore where I bought it, even for their usual measly pennies on the dollar offer.

As the turn of the century approached, humanity was encouraged to stockpile essentials to prep for the possible (probable) Armageddon scheduled for the stroke of midnight on 12/31/1999, when the computers that ran the world stopped working.  I knew people who believed the end was near.  One old college friend and her family actually built a cold-war era bunker in their yard.  My husband, Bill, and I didn’t buy into all the panic, but it seemed prudent to make some preparations, so we laid in a modest supply of ammunition, toilet paper, bottled water and canned goods.

Which brings me to my current dilemma.

Do you think canned wax beans with a sell-by date of 3/17/2000 are still safe to eat?

My dad would say yes.  Emphatically. 

Dad was a child of the Depression.  He grew up poor, and considered wasting food immoral because our bounty was a gift from God and there were people starving in the world.  I tend to agree with him.  This means I am a charter member of the clean plate club and have struggled mightily with weight issues all my life.   But I digress.

While visiting my parents in the later years of their lives, I was rooting around in their pantry for something and noticed that almost half of their food had expired.   Good daughter that I am, I resolved to sort through everything and toss the expired stuff.  Dad caught me in the act.  Was he properly thankful for my hard work?  No!  He was horrified.

Dad grabbed for the dented, dusty can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew I was intending to chuck in the trash.

“That’s still good!” he said, indignantly, trying to wrench the prize out of my hand.

I tugged back.”Dad, this expired during the Eisenhower administration!” 

Dad held on grimly and replied, “That date is just a guideline!”  I must say, his grip was surprisingly strong for a man in his eighties.

I wouldn’t put it past the old man to have bought the stew to stock an air raid shelter back in the day.

This episode highlighted several things about my Dad: he took care of his family, was thrifty, thankful for his blessings, genuinely concerned about the less fortunate, and cautious.  These wonderful traits were sprinkled over with a generous helping of good, old fashioned stubbornness.  That same caution and fierce, impractical determination runs through my veins, which is why I find myself debating the fate of a 25 year old can of wax beans. 

I’m sure I bought these as part of my Y2K preparedness plan, but I can’t imagine why – I hate wax beans!  Maybe that was all that was left on grocery store shelves made bare by panic-purchasing at the time.  I’m afraid to open the can, because after 25 years of bottled up fermentation, it’ll probably explode.  Maybe the beans have turned into some oozing, primordial life form due to spontaneous generation.  Even the poorest of the poor wouldn’t want these now, but for some reason it seems wrong to throw the can away.  I can practically hear Dad saying, “They’ll be fine with a little salt and pepper!”

I think I’ll put the beans aside until my next visit to my hometown.  I’ll go to my parents’ graves, dig a little hole and bury the can next to Dad.  Perhaps I’ll say a few solemn words.  I think he’d like that.

And that way I’ll know where to find those wax beans if I need them in the future.  Just in case.