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I Am A Liar From The Pit Of Hell

It was such a gorgeous day that we had morning coffee on the patio of a friend's house. We lounged in the morning sun, sipped our coffee, and luxuriated in some good people-watching gossip and sighed that "Hot damn it's Sunday and we don't have a care in the world" kind of sigh.

We all agreed it would be a great day for a BBQ. I offered to make baked beans, potato salad a green salad and other things I happened to come up with. This was a good old American backyard BBQ so even though I really wanted the baked goat cheese with roasted red pepper salsa that I had for an appetizer last night, I forged ahead with fine patio dining.

We decided to call up some mutual friends and invite them to our firey feast. We struggled when we came to one set of friends - we will call them Bill and His Wife - and when the subject of what we should have them bring came up, we all winced and said, "Tell His Wife to just bring some chips and beverage".

His Wife is a wonderful person.

Well. Ok.

She's a very nice person.

But she has a slight penchant for lying and she's a horrible cook and a horrible housekeeper. When I say "horrible cook" I don't mean she has trouble in the kitchen and can't possible hold up to my over-the-top food snob standards. I mean she really has to have step-by-step directions for buttering toast. And the housekeeping... Let's just say that you can find cleaner bathrooms at a road-side gas station in rural Arkansas.

I am a horrible person for putting that out there but by God, it's true. The first time I ever went to their house (which, coincidentally, was the last time I ever went to their house) was to bring dinner after she had surgery. I have never in my life seen a kitchen more repulsive. In all of my Whoring, I have seen a lot of nasty kitchens. I have even had to work in kitchens that smell like dead fish covered in cat pee, so I know my kitchens.

Fortunately she's not big at having social functions at her house so we are never faced with that awkward silence of thinking of really grandiose excuses as to why we can't come over. "Oh, I am so sorry Bill. Funny thing is we have found out that our house has been taken over by crazy ghosts and we have a group of Tibetan Monks coming over to perform sacred rituals to make them flee."

Anyway, we love Bill and we do like His Wife, but we just never EVER want to eat her food. Because, as I mentioned above, she can't cook and God knows what kind of bacterium will arrive in the dish.

So on this day, we agreed in unison she should bring bags of chips and cans of beverage. That's it. Nothing more.

Not a damn thing more. We were very very clear about that.

When The Husband and I arrived to the BBQ, we found everyone waiting in earnest on the patio to get the party started. Oddly, though, there was a feeling of doom in the air and it was perplexing until I went into the house to set my food on the table.

Everyone in the kitchen was acting hedgy and tried to get me away from the food table but I had me some hot beans in my hand and they had to have a place to sit. Through some strategic eye-and-head-twisting-only conversations, I realized what the issue was. His Wife had brought a macaroni salad and proudly had it displayed next to where my hot beans were about to find their rest.

A feeling of doom came over me in a way that I cannot express. Not only did His Wife break our trust by not bringing sealed bags of chips purchased safely from the supermarket, she actually boiled noodles and added ingredients from her kitchen - and me without a current tetanus shot.

For a brief moment I considered being the martyr and "accidentally" spilling an entire glass of wine in the dish but His Wife was standing proudly next to her E-Coli Casserole and there was no way around it. I then though someone could distract her and I could have The Husband "accidentally" have a ketchup bottle mishap and shoot a few cups of Heinz into the bowl. But The Husband took one look a the salad and made a dash for the patio. Sissy Bastard.

The only option was to make His Wife get her food first, thereby not allowing her to stand guard and make sure that everyone took a big spoonfull of her creation. She gleefully took the first plate and then headed out to the grill.

Thank God, a moment to plan.

I peeked into the bowl to see exactly what we were dealing with. What I spied was something that shook me so violently that I nearly did become the martyr by vomiting right on top of the Bowl of Bile. From my best recollection the salad consisted of what appeared to be macaroni pasta, tuna fish, chunks of velveeta (I know), green olives, black olives, corn, bologna and some sort of minced root vegetable all swimming in some sort of bright orange "glaze".

We thought we were safe to hurry and fill our plates but damn if she didn't peek her head in the door and say, "Now. everyone take my salad, I made up the recipe and I want to know what you all think!"

Sweet Mother of God.

The only way to avoid this would be to trip and fall and break a bone and pray the paramedics would get there in time to save everyone else from having to take a bite. Fortunately for me, my plate was already full and I said, "Shoot! Look at me being a pig. My plate is full but I promise to get some on the next go-around!" Which immediately made me the most hated person in the food line.

The night went on and she was completely preoccupied with feeding the family dog from her plate which gave everyone ample time to ditch the uneaten salad and gave me enough time to ditch my plate without ever having to have any of "the dish" come into my air space.

Later, as I was meandering over to the Bocci game she rushed over and said, "Sooooo did you like it?? Was it seasoned enough?? It's really important that you tell me!"

I grabbed her hand and said, "It was wonderful!"

I just bought my condo in Hell.
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Posted by Foodwhore at April 18, 2004 09:52 PM