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There’s always a potluck.
Birthday club? Monthly potluck.
New employee? Potluck.
Old employee, new to the unit? Potluck.
Having a baby? 10-year anniversary at work? There happens to be a holiday that month?
Potluck, potluck, potluck.
I tend to avoid these things, but I can only take so much prodding.
After a week of “come on, c’mon on, c’mooooon”, and then being asked why I don’t participate in the various potluck events at work about a gazillion times, I realized I had to either be extra, super-duper stern, on some WHAT PART OF I’M NOT INTERESTED DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND to these people, or just attend one.
One reason I avoid these, is because everyone wants you to try their extra-special, souped-up, baconated, cheesed out, grandma’s version of whatever dish they brought, and boy-howdy, they don’t much take well to the word “no thanks”.
And if you just plain don’t like whatever the dish is, in general, gosh darnit, you haven’t had it done proper because *their* version is the bees knees.
Sure, it’s very hit and miss, but the thing is, the hits are usually “edible” while the misses are usually something that isn’t just bad, but vile.
So to be polite, sociable, and, frankly, to get simply get these fine folks off my back on the subject, I attended. Regrettably.
Because I had, for the first time, Devils Surprise Eggs.
Note: nothing with the word “surprise” in the name should ever be consumed without being explicitly told what the surprise is. So that’s on me for finally, mercifully acquiescing.
First, a deviled egg is perfect, as is. KISS and all that.
Second, it’s high on my list of things to avoid at such office functions.
Today, my reward for being a team player with my personal time, was the, uh, “pleasure” of biting into, for the first and last time, a deviled egg full of allegedly diced onions and green onions, bacos, and a “surprise!” layer of sour cream in the mix.
I thought the hunk of green onion on top was garnish, but no. there were other leafy hunks of this inside. I’m pretty sure the onions were “diced” with a weed wacker. Or by Jason Voorhees, I’m still debating on this one. Because this wasn’t diced. It was hacked. Just massive, oddly-sized hunks of onion.
This does not mesh well, alliteration unintended, with the mush of the egg mixture. And the sour cream, while disgusting in and of itself (to me), must have come from a dollar store, because it was basically milk at this point.
I was polite, and honestly cited the textural contrast not being my thing, rather than honestly citing how repulsive the entire thing was.
This lady told me to finish it, because everyone loves them. She pouted about it, loudly saying that everyone loves them, and she doesn’t understand what my problem is.
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