My husband insists butter belongs on the counter.
“That’s how Grandma Selma did it,” he says, like it’s gospel.
But I couldn’t stop wondering—is that even safe?
The first time I saw it, that pale yellow block perched on a chipped floral dish by the toaster, it looked innocent enough. But as it softened into a glossy puddle under the afternoon sun, my stomach twisted.
Braden was in the garage, tinkering with his vintage bike. He’s the kind of man who treats rules as suggestions.
“Braden,” I called, “did you leave the butter out?”
Without looking up: “Of course, Maribel. Grandma Selma always did. It’s fine.”
I didn’t argue. But I texted Odessa, my kitchen-savvy friend.
Her reply was instant: “Girl, toss it. Salmonella is real.”
From then on, that butter dish felt like a threat. Braden kept using it—on toast, crackers, anything. I stuck to olive oil, trying not to gag.
One morning, I woke up determined to settle it. I scoured food safety sites. Some said butter could sit out for a day or two in cool temps. Others insisted on refrigeration. Our kitchen was 78°F. Not ideal.
