Braden was in the garage, tinkering with his vintage bike. He’s the kind of man who treats rules as suggestions.
“Braden,” I called, “did you leave the butter out?”
Without looking up: “Of course, Maribel. Grandma Selma always did. It’s fine.”
I didn’t argue. But I texted Odessa, my kitchen-savvy friend.
Her reply was instant: “Girl, toss it. Salmonella is real.”
From then on, that butter dish felt like a threat. Braden kept using it—on toast, crackers, anything. I stuck to olive oil, trying not to gag.
