I just cooked and ate the six-year-old steak. Well, coming out of the package it seemed to have already cooked a little, so maybe I should say I cooked it further. And it was horrible, but not quite as horrible as it could ahve been -- it did taste vaguely like beef. I smothered it in Heinz 57 sauce and feasted.

I can't wait to get myself and our cooking gear to Berea-Rose.

It's just leftovers until then. Last night I opened a fiasco of chianti, vintage 1988. I'm not sure if chianti is a variety that is even capable of aging well. Perhaps if it had been in a cool dark cellar, tilted to keep the cork moist, maybe then it would have maintained itself. Instead, it had been tucked behind a broken-down couch the Castle 1526. Tossed by psychic storms. Stored with deteriorating rubber balloons. Not far from Vito's ass.

The cork was waxed on the sides, but I could tell it was crumbling on the wine end. When I poured the wine into a glass I immediately noticed the color. It was sort of red. But not red like velvet, the way you'd want in a wine. This was red like rust. I sniffed. I winced. I sipped. I scowled. I spat.

I poured the rest of the bottle down the sink. It was too bad... 1988 was an interesting year for me.

Next up: an ancient pack of frozen chicken breasts. Expiration date: August 12. Year: unknown. Kind-a like Pot Luck. Or more like Pol Pot Luck.