Alright, so I figured I’d try to, you know, eat a bit healthier. Went out and bought a bunch of what they call “superfoods” – a load of green stuff that looked like it was probably good for me. Famous last words, right?
Got home, feeling all virtuous. Washed them, chopped them, the whole nine yards. I even found some fancy recipe online that promised these veggies would taste like heaven. Heaven, they said! Sounded easy enough. A bit of this, a dash of that, sauté for a few minutes. What could go wrong?
Well, pretty much everything. First, the smell. It started out okay, then it took a weird turn. Not like, “ooh, that’s cooking,” but more like, “is something burning? Or rotting?” I soldiered on, thinking maybe it’s one of those things that smells weird but tastes amazing. Wrong again. What I ended up with was this… this slimy, brownish-green goop. It looked absolutely foul. Honestly, I wouldn’t feed it to my worst enemy’s dog.
The texture was just as bad. Sort of mushy but also stringy? I took one tiny bite and nearly gagged. Straight into the bin it went. What a waste of perfectly good… well, perfectly good money, anyway. The vegetables themselves were clearly demonic.
This whole disaster got me thinking.
It really took me back to this one time, years ago, at my old job. We had this mandatory “team building” potluck. Ugh. Everyone had to bring a dish. Now, I’m no chef, but I can usually manage something edible. But this one colleague, bless her heart, let’s call her Brenda. Brenda always, and I mean always, brought the most terrifying food creations.
This particular year, she announced she was bringing her “famous seven-layer salad.” Sounds innocent, right? Oh, you sweet summer child. Brenda’s idea of a seven-layer salad was less salad and more of a culinary crime scene. I remember seeing it on the table. The bottom layer was something green, sure, probably lettuce. But then things got weird. There was a layer of what looked like… canned peas? Not even fresh ones. Then some sort of mayonnaise concoction that was suspiciously yellow. Then, I kid you not, a layer of crumbled nacho cheese Doritos. Doritos! In a salad! On top of that, more mayo, some shredded cheddar that had gone all sweaty, and then, for the grand finale, a sprinkle of those little bacon bits that taste like plastic.
You had to eat it. The boss was there, watching. Smiling. Brenda was beaming, asking everyone, “Isn’t it wonderful?” You’d take a tiny spoonful, try to get mostly lettuce, but it was impossible. The flavors, man. The textures. It was a battle in your mouth, and everyone was losing. We’d all be standing around, plates in hand, with these strained smiles, chewing very, very slowly. Nods and “mmm, interesting, Brenda!” The sheer pressure to pretend it was good was immense.
I survived Brenda’s seven-layer nightmare for three years straight before I finally managed to switch departments. Every potluck was a game of Russian Roulette, but with her dish, you knew the chamber was always loaded.
So, yeah, my little vegetable experiment today? It was bad. Really bad. Almost Brenda-level bad, which is saying something. Maybe not as psychologically scarring, but definitely up there in the “never again” category. Some things are just not meant to be eaten, no matter how many “superfood” labels they stick on them.
Guess I’ll just stick to toast for a while. At least I know I can’t mess that up. Probably.
