Nothing keeps forever, but with all the oil and incendiary ingredients in the thing, it was hard to imagine how it could go bad.
So I carried it around.
I carried it to Sun City West, Arizona, where it languished for months next to the constant parade of bland, Costco-inspired indistinguishable paste-like foods specialized in by my grandmother.
I carried it back to Myrtle Beach, for a one-week stay in the back of my car while I golfed and celebrated my last week of freedom.
I carried it up to DC, where it hung out with me in the Sheraton while I frantically searched for a place to live.
I carried it up to my apartment here in Herndon, on my first trip up the three flights of stairs to #404. It was the first thing in my refrigerator.
So, just for kicks, I got a chicken breast, and, for the first time in 150+ days, I opened the little plastic container, added a little oil to loosen it up, and started marinating the chicken with this ungodly remnant of food-like substance from the long-forgotten past.
Then I cooked it, and served it over a little coconut rice.
The point of this story is to corroborate those early, suspect-sounding reports:
Jerk sauce keeps forever. (And, it's just about the best damn thing you can possibly put in your face.)
