As Michelle is making pineapple juice from a frozen concentrate, I have to question the age of the juice. She dumps it into a pitcher, and I remark at its odd green-brown color.
"How old is that?" I ask her.
"It’s three years old," Little Ninja pipes in.
"We’ve probably had it since we lived in Fair Play," Brett says.
Michelle laughs and wonders aloud if frozen juice can go bad. Surely not. She prepares a beverage with it and makes a face after tasting it. She passes it to me and I taste it. I savor the flavor for a moment.
"Let me taste that again."
Something is definitely wrong. Brett tastes it.
"The pineapple juice is off. It hasn’t turned bad…it’s just off."
Michelle finds the cardboard canister it was in, looking for an expiration date.
"There’s no date on here."
She finds the metal lid. She laughs.
"What date does it say?" I ask.
"September," she says through her laughter.
"September what?" I ask, wondering what year.
"September 25," she says in a fit of giggles.
"What year?!?" Surely I’m not the only person wondering at this point.
"September 25, 2004."
 
We all laugh. We just drank green 5-year-old pineapple juice.
Any they make fun of Missourians.
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