Ok so I’m trying to figure out how to write this post without seeming like a neurotic, germaphobic snob or just a complete nut job. It turns out, I can’t.
But unfortunately for all of us, that’s not going to stop me.
Here’s the thing. Tonight we went to a potluck dinner, and I’ve just got to say…
Potlucks skeeve me out.
They sound like a good idea in theory – we each bring one thing, it’s not too hard on anyone, everyone’s happy.
In practice, however, they really don’t work out that well. Take, for example, what my family ate tonight. Andy had a plate full of assorted food that included chicken & noodles, asian cole slaw salad, cubes of cheese, and shrimp cocktail. Sammy ate a piece of cheese pizza, half a peanut butter and jelly, baked beans and a chocolate chip cookie (the most normal out of any of us). Kate ate a spoonful of sloppy joe without a bun and a cupcake, and I ate a chicken leg.
Because potlucks? They’re random food made by random people.
As you may have noticed, it’s not that I have a problem eating food prepared by others (in fact, that’s how I prefer it).
It’s not even that I’m opposed to the 16 variations of green bean casserole or endless dishes of that hash brown/sour cream/potato chip concoction. I actually am a big fan of those things and many other white trash delicacies as well.
But when they’re piled on a picnic table and their origin is unknown…
Well, I eat a chicken leg.
Because, like I said, potlucks skeeve me out.
I know the box of KFC is much more likely to contain spit and/or other bodily fluids than the food lovingly prepared by moms much more domestic and talented than me, yet somehow the luke warm Original Recipe seems like the safest choice.
I don’t know what it is.
Actually, I do know what it is. It’s random food made by random people.
It weirds me out.
Now, since I ate a measly chicken leg for dinner, I’m going to go order a pizza. Because dough kneaded by pimply teenagers is MUCH MORE APPEALING than a crock pot full of meatballs.