Terrible foodBack when I was a student, we had a "clear out the fridge" party. Everyone brought what they had left and the idea was to make a big meal out of it.
The stew/casserole/whatever was going surprisingly well until someone added the tin of mackerel in tomato sauce they'd been hoarding all year.
What's the worst thing you've ever cooked or eaten? Who's the worst cook you've encountered?
[and yes, we've asked this before, but way, way back before we had the fancy QOTW pages]
(
chthonic, Thu 17 May 2007, 10:23)
« Go Back
'Diet' is just 'Die' with a 'T' addeedOne day, Mrs. God decides that she'd like to shift an extra pound or two. So she goes to work, and asks the women she works with for a good diet. The two fattest people there hand her a piece of paper with 'British Heart Institution Diet' at the top. It's like a 93rd generation photocopy, and a bit hard to read.
So, Mrs. God carefully conveys this home, as if carrying the Holy Grail. And together, we check out the awful truth. Oh. My. God.
Now, I can eat almost anything. I'm known for it. In fact, Mrs. God complains that she never knows if I like her cooking, as I always eat everything in front of me.
We shop for these ingredients. Now, Mrs. God is something of a picky eater, despite as I said, wanting to shift a pound or two. But we get all the ingredients for the three days we need to survive, and get it sorted.
Breakfast, day 1, is something moleste odd like a slice of ham, a digestive biscuit, and half a grapefruit. Now, I'd never eaten grapefruit before, but I thought it'd be a bit like an orange, only yellow. Turns out it's more like Satan's snot marinated in lemon washing up liquid. A tiny nibble on the end of a spoon triggers a hurling fit unmatched since my student days. Twenty minutes later, the last of the dry heaves stop, and I lurch from the bathroom, pale and twitching. I go to work, starving. I get texts all day from various in-laws, teasing me for puking.
Lunch was OK. Dinner was OK, although my spirits were slightly lifted by watching Mrs. God struggle with it. In the end, she closes her eyes, holds her nose, and eats whatever the hell it was one cubic millimeter at a time.
We go to bed, tummies rumbling no end. At least she'd had *three* meals - I'd only had two, and I'm sure I'd chucked what I'd eaten the day before as well.
Breakfast, day 2. This time, as I happily tucked in, Mrs. God's normally English Rose complexion turned rather more... well, let's say British Racing Green. Would she...?
She did.
Lunch... Well, it went in.
That night, we looked at the diet sheet. We looked at the ingredients. We looked at each other... We went to the chip shop.
Turns out, after a brisk bit of Googling, that said diet is nothing to do with the British Heart Foundation. They have a page on their web site (here, if you're interested) explaining that it's nothing to do with them.
Never again!
(, Fri 18 May 2007, 0:09, Reply)
« Go Back