Wednesday, July 13, 2011

I think you know where you can shove your Potluck.

Monday was the second day within a week that my company department held a potluck. You bring your one dish to share and in return get to choose from a veritable plethora of edible delights. Who doesn’t love a good potluck? *raises hand* This girl, right here.



I don’t eat at buffets. Wanna know why? Two words. Snot guards. Any place serving food that has found it necessary to separate the food about to be consumed from the public’s bodily fluids is absolutely not to be trusted. I would rather search for lunch leftovers under my fingernails.


Same concept applies to potlucks. Sure, I work with these people and see them every day but how can I trust that they didn’t stick their filthy finger in the batter, test it out and dip again; just to be sure they put enough vanilla in there? How am I to know if a cloud of eyebrow dandruff has covertly drifted into that crock pot? What I DO know is that some of them think washing your hands with hot water and soap after using the rest room is more of a suggestion than a necessity. After Monday’s potluck a couple of coworkers mentioned feeling slightly nauseous. I stated that clearly it was the inevitable onset of Hepatitis C. They blew me off but we shall see. We shall see.


However, the questionable hygiene habits of my coworkers are not the main reason I dislike potlucks. It’s the pressure. Pressure that I very rarely cave in to. Last week’s potluck I zipped out 20 minutes before, grabbed a box of croissants and a jar of Nutella. Tossed it on the table and called it good. For some ridiculous reason I felt I should make an effort for this week’s potluck. Ugh. I don’t like baking or cooking or measuring or anything that requires more than dialing for takeout.


And so, in a stroke of impossible optimism I decided to bake an angel food cake. I vigorously washed my hands. With soap, even. Whipped up the batter, sans eyebrow dandruff and popped it in the oven. With my bowl of whipped cream and cherry topping standing by for the finished product, I plopped down on the couch with my glass of vino to await my culinary masterpiece.






I showed up with a meat, cheese and cracker tray that Cindy said looked like a lunchable on steroids.


                                                            I hate potlucks.