Diary of some deli meat.

Dear Diary,

I'm deli meat. People call me "turkey." I don't mind 'cause I'm special. Honey Roasted. Sweet and savory, I'm a favorite. My competition is smoked. You could say he's the fiery one of the cold cuts.

Today I was hanging out in the frig. I can't remember how long I've been in there or how long I'll last, although the date on my package says I'm good for another week.

I was chatting it up with Monterey Jack when the light came on. The lady of the house poked around a bit looking for something for her lunch. She found me.

I saw her eyeing the date on my package. She didn't look convinced either. So she opened up my packaging, looked closely and took a whiff. She sniffed again, then put me on the counter next to a jar of Hellman's and a loaf of bread.

Again, she checked the date on my package. Took a whiff.

The look on her face told me she still wasn't convinced but, before I knew it, she was lathering the mayo on two slices of bread. (I'm more of a Dijon guy.) She took a few slices of me, folded them on the bread, sliced the new sandwich into two triangles and took a bite.

Then another.

And another.

Then she wrinkled up her nose, opened up the sandwich, removed me completely, put the two pieces of bread back together and finished her lunch.

Now I'm hanging out in the trash next to a half-eaten peach and a used Bounty paper towel.

I'll bet Smokey is never treated like this.

Sincerely,
H.R. Turkey

Tomorrow- A trip to the landfill. It should be fun.