When I was very young, my Mom went out of town for a week or so. Now, my Mom is an excellent cook. I've tried to convince her to open a restaurant for years.
Dad? That's a different story. He could make pasta, but other than that, he was at a total loss.
For some reason he got it in his head to make a stew.
All day this 'stew' taunted us children from its perch atop the stove. It wasn't boiling, it was gurgling - like the festering cesspool of Golgotha (and smelled as bad.)
When dinner time came around, we sat around the table as dutiful children. There would be no other dinner, so we resigned ourselves to our 'Someone please call child protective services' fate...
Once my eldest sister - the bravest - tried it, she immediately spit it on her plate. I think tears were shed.
I made a break for it. I hid under my parents' bed, hoping to wait out the storm while I heard wailing and sobbing from my sisters downstairs.
Eventually, dad gave up and called pizza...
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Haha...My dad called 'burnt' 'cajun-style.' lol ;P