Last month, my wife's office — most days a haven of dreamless industry — was shaken by what came to be known as the Trail Mix Incident.
An American employee had brought the snack in as omiyage (a souvenir). Twenty packs in a box: a mean promiscuity of chocolate, raisins and nuts, menacing waistlines all over the section.
"Our DNA said no," my wife explained coolly. "We just knew this wasn't delicious."
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