The other night over dinner, the bride starts to tell me a story about some article she read that day.
Bride: 'So this librarian found an envelope of hundred year old scabs in a book - '
Me: 'Ew! Stop! Eating a pork chop here!'
Bride: 'Yeah, but listen, they were these smallpox scabs -'
Me: 'Stop saying that word while I'm eating, woman!'
Bride: 'What? Scab?'
Me: 'I must go vomit now.'
I don't know what it is about the story, I'm not particularly bothered by my own scabbed wounds, or even my daughter's skinned knees for example. But there's something about other people's scabs that really just makes a pork chop inedible.