My friend Jane invited a bunch of us round for a house-warming supper; she’d just moved out of her parents’ place and into her own flat, and was ever so excited about it.
She scooped us all a generous serving of dinner: some sort of brown splodge and rice.
As we hungrily raised our forks, Jane thanked us for joining her: “…and I know you won’t believe it, but this is the first time I’ve ever cooked! Bon Appetit!!”
The rice wasn’t just undercooked, it was still raw. And I’ve still no idea what the brown splodge was actually supposed to be (tumours au gratin? braised dysentery? hot misery?)
Whatever it was, it remains the second-worst meal that I have ever eaten.*
We exchanged panicked glances over our heaped bowls. Jane beamed at us: “Are you enjoying it?”
She was one of life’s genuine sweethearts, a thoroughly lovely person. It would have been like kicking a puppy. “It’s delicious!”, we enthusiastically lied in unison.
Being a well-brought up type, I forced down every last horrifically crunchy mouthful. My friend Matthew later confessed to having tipped his bowlful into a pot-plant.
We all declined seconds. “I’m so full, I couldn’t eat another mouthful!” Well, half of that sentence was true.
I didn’t even let her make me a cup of tea after that
*There’s a chance that the creator of the third-worst meal that I’ve ever eaten will see anything I write about it, so I won’t be telling you about that one. But at some point I will tell you about the worst-ever meal that I’ve ever eaten. Because I made that one. (I’m usually a pretty good chef, honest.)