Stand back, she’s gonna blow!

That was my reaction when I found the can of condensed milk that was bulging well beyond the can’s capacity to safely contain its contents. 
 
And no, this was not my pantry. It was my father’s pantry. You may call him “Jer.” I do. We all do. (Editor’s note: “Jer,” which is pronounced “jair,” is short for “Jerry,” which itself is short for “Jerome.” Truncation upon truncation.) 
 
I was going through Jer’s pantry because he asked me to. He hadn’t cleaned it out in years. He felt it was long overdue. So this was not a pushy daughter telling a father how to live his life. This was a nice daughter agreeing to step up after a specifically requested. 
 
Why is the fact that he asked important? Because I had no fear of him losing his shit when I pointed out, “You know Jer, the ketchup is older then your grandson, and he’s in college.” 
 
I had tried that once, years earlier. Finding at least a dozen rolls of clingwrap in the pantry, I bundled all of it into my arms and carried it into the den where the family was gathered around the TV. (Shocking) Arms bulging with serrated-edge dispenser boxes, I said “Mom, do you think we have enough clingwrap to keep the sofa fresh?”
 
Well, I thought it was funny.
 
But flash forward to 2025, and I was doing a favor. I told Jer it was a one-person job and pointed at the TV. “The Phillies are on. Enjoy yelling at the them. I got this.”
 
Standing inside the 4x8-foot room with trash bags at the ready, I began methodically looking at the expiration date on each item. Except for the few things Jer uses regularly, most of the stuff was well past the point where any remaining flavor or nutritional value was outweighed by the fear factor. 
 
For fun, I began putting aside the item with the oldest date on it, whether it be an expiration date or best-by date. “Look, February 2016.”
 
Then, I came across something older and thought, “Hey, 2013!” The younger item went into the trash and the elder comestible took the place of honor. 
 
Periodically, Jer would call out. “Hon, are you done yet?”
 
“No.”
 
Wow. Soft gram crackers. Almond butter that smelled like old sponges. Nilla Wafers that had devolved into something resembling the sand found at the bottom of the Lost Ark of The Covenant. It all went out. But first, I checked the dates. 
 
“Hey, 2010!”
 
“Hon, are you done yet?”
 
“No.”
 
My favorite part of the task was the “Ice Cream Enhancements” section. Oh, yes. My mother had one of those. 
 
That particular pantry shelf was packed tight with sugared-up condiments including: butterscotch topping, chocolate syrup, sprinkles/jimmies, random mix-ins, and my fave: a product called “Magic Shell.” 
 
This delightful Smucker’s product came into our lives back in the day when we all marveled at the idea of an at-home edition of the same hard, crackly, melty chocolate coating—which, when you bite into it, shatters all over your clothing—that was normally only available from the fine folks at Dairy Queen when they dip your soft-serve. 
 
Magic, I tell you! 
 
There were also walnuts packed in syrup. This was something my mother called “wet nuts.” (Yes, I know.) 
 
Honestly, my money had been on the Magic Shell to take the win as oldest item in the pantry with a date in 2008. 
 
But then I saw it: the Methuselah of the pantry items. Tucked at the back of a lower shelf was a can so distorted, I was afraid to pick it up. 
 
“Hon, are you done yet?”
 
“No.”
 
“What the heck are you doing in there?” (He didn’t use the word, “heck.”)
 
“Shh. I don’t want make it nervous.”
 
I was deeply concerned. Okay, yes, perhaps I was overreacting. I am someone who walks the Earth ready to flinch or duck at moment’s notice for fear something in the vicinity will blow up. One time Mr. Parker had something on the counter in a slow cooker. Steam was coming out so I gave the thing a wide berth.
 
He said, “What are you doing? It’s not like it’s going to explode.”
 
I said, “It could happen.”
 
“Hon, the only way that could happen is--
 
“A-ha! So there is a way.”
 
Back to the pantry, I carefully picked up the potential explosive device to check its date. I had to know. Drum roll...
 
2007!!! A new winner and pantry champion! An 18-year old can of sweetened condensed milk that was getting ready to vote. 
 
Before carefully placing the 14-ounce explosive into the trash and calling the bomb squad, I placed it on the counter for a quick pic. Tell me you wouldn’t.
 
“Hon, are you done yet?”
 
“Yes!”

Can (pre-explosion)

Expiration date