Almost every great cuisine on earth was built on meat that had started to rot.
Take the Romans. They seasoned nearly every dish in the empire with the liquid from fish guts packed in salt and left in the sun for three months. The sauce was called garum, and they could not get enough of it.
It went on every table, from the cheapest kitchen to the emperor's own, the finest grades fetching more per jar than perfume. By any modern reading of the label, it was spoiled fish. The whole Mediterranean adored it, and its descendants are in your cupboard right now, in the fish sauce and the Worcestershire.
Garum was no freak exception. Look at almost any traditional culture and you find a prized staple that a modern food-safety officer would condemn on sight.
In Iceland they make hákarl, Greenland shark buried in gravel and fermented for months. The fresh shark is genuinely poisonous, so loaded with urea that eating it raw leaves you staggering as if drunk. The fermentation breaks the toxins down and turns a flesh that would harm you into a food that keeps for years.
In Greenland the Inuit pack whole seabirds into a sealskin and bury it under stones to ferment. The Swedes tin fermented herring so pungent it has to be opened outdoors.
And it is not only the far north. The British gentry hung their pheasant until the bird was frankly high, right on the edge of rot, because that was when the flavour was best. A dry-aged steak is beef left for weeks until a crust of mould forms, scraped off before the butcher charges you a small fortune. Controlled decomposition, and the connoisseurs queue up for the funk.
None of this means your ancestors had iron stomachs you have somehow lost. You have the same stomach. You are simply frightened to use it.
We entered the meat business as scavengers, long before we were good hunters, working over the carcasses other predators left and cracking the bones for marrow. The body still carries the receipt. The human stomach runs at a pH of around one and a half, as savagely acidic as a vulture's, sitting right down among the dedicated eaters of carrion.
That acid is a weapon. It evolved to destroy what breeds in a dead body before it ever reaches your gut. You are built to handle meat well past fresh.
Which puts that little date on the packet in its place. The sell-by date is a recent commercial convenience, not a cliff edge beyond which food turns to poison at the stroke of midnight.
The honest part, because it matters. Fermentation and ageing are controlled transformations, a world away from mince forgotten in a warm car. Some spoilage is genuinely dangerous, and a few of these traditions can kill if done carelessly. The skill was always in knowing the difference.
But a species that built rotted-fish sauce and fermented shark into its proudest cuisines was never going to be felled by a steak two days past its date. This is what you are for.
They were scavengers with the gut to match. And so, under all the shrink-wrap, are you.