Chicken about soup

A couple of days ago, I made a chicken in the crock-pot. I love to do this because it makes a nice chicken stock that I can use later to make homemade chicken noodle soup, which everyone except Pig Jr. really enjoys. In a family of five, for four people to eat any given meal is a major accomplishment.

Tonight, I figured I would make up the chicken soup. It was either that or freeze the stock, and I am generally too lazy to do that. I set up my huge pot, threw in the stock and some extra water, and went to get the chicken to add while it simmered. I realized I did not have enough leftovers to make a really meaty soup, so I added some canned chicken breast chunks that I keep around for this purpose. It was not until after I added the canned chicken that I realized the can had been dented on one side.

Instantly, my "possible food poisoning" internal alarms went off. Had I realized the can was dented before using it, I would have thrown it out and used an unblemished one instead. As it was, I stood there, empty can in hand, wondering whether I could even bring myself to eat something that had the potential for some nasty bacteria to be growing in it. If Pig ate it over my objections and got sick from it, would I be legally liable because I had prepared it? And even if Pig and I could eat it, did I dare feed it to our kidlets? Granted, they would probably eat dirt and dead spiders if given the chance, but that does not mean they should eat something contaminated at the dinner table.

Intellectually, I knew the can was probably okay. The lid had been flat and made the suctioning sound of air entering when the lid had been punctured by the can opener. The color of the chicken was as expected. There was no funny smell. I also remembered reading somewhere that most of the cases of botulism in the US are actually from people attempting to can their own food. Granted, I have no idea where I read that tidbit of information. I could have read it on the side of a cereal box or on some graffiti downtown and it would still register only as having been read somewhere.

I pictured starving people in other countries scolding me for throwing out perfectly good food. I could hear Pig's voice in my head telling me I was being paranoid and I should just continue making soup. I could imagine countless individuals telling me I should just conquer my fears and eat the dang chicken soup. I wondered whether the curative properties of chicken noodle soup extended to food poisoning from eating the same. Intellectually, I knew what I needed to do. I needed to grow a spine and make the darn soup for dinner.

Instead, I wussed out. I called Pig on his cell phone to explain my concern. He sighed in the manner of one who has dealt with his wife's runaway imagination for far too long and conceded that if I was that concerned about it, I should throw it out and make something else. I was grateful for his support and neglected to mention to him that I had already turned off the stovetop and popped chicken nuggets into the oven.

I might be a wuss, but if this paranoia saves my family's lives someday, it will all be worth it.