Spreads
The roommate I had in my first ever apartment lacked culinary skills. It wasn't that he didn't try, he was just optimistic to a fault. If something burned or was spoiled, he's shrug his shoulders, continue cooking, and hope that the end result would be good. He'd always assume that it would be until he tasted it. Never mind sense of smell or the fact that it was billowing thick, black smoke. Anyway, I'd mostly avoid his creations and pass at dinner when it was his turn to cook. We thankfully lived right next door to a convenience store, so I could just pop on over and get myself a few candy bars to supplemant dinner.

I remember one particular meal vividly. The roommate had bought a few things at the grocery, things that would probably make a decent meal for a couple of starving college kids: ramen noodles (the cheap packet of freeze-dried noodles for under fifty cents), some ham, a bottle of ketchup, a bag of Doritos and some beef jerkey. "I'm cooking!" he announced, and proceeded to mix every afore-mentioned ingredient into a pot together with a large amount of water and some salt. The smell that escaped the kitchen moments later was putrid. To be fair I didn't actually eat this "meal" -- wouldn't go near it -- but watching him eat it was enough for me.

Years later I would learn (from my boyfriend) that this mixture of ramen noodles and assorted crap is actually a delicacy in the prison/jail system, where I guess you can't secure a decent meal and so have to convince the other felons to smuggle hotdog chunks and corn-chip crumbs to mix with a big pot of ramen noodles. This is called "spreads," for a reason that escapes my sense of logic. The funny part? My roommate has never been to jail and has never known anyone who has.
(BrainSurgerysFun, Sat 19 May 2007, 0:41, Reply)