To all Michele's readers! 

We apologize for any inconvenience. Michele Furman was injured during a fall at an airport and hurt her wrists and hands and sustained other bumps and bruises. This is temporary, but until she will not be able to write her short funny true stories, pending an MRI and healing time. Coco will be back from vacation in a week and will be able to write the Recipe Ridicules with the new one appearing on Thursday July 9th. If you would like to drop her a get well note, you can send it to forksandfiascos@gmail.com. 

Thank you for understanding!

Roger Furman

 

Pollinate Like a Doula

Last year was my very first attempt at planting a small herb garden — plus a couple of tomatoes and peppers (bell peppers and jalapeños) because apparently, I thought I was suddenly capable of running a miniature farm. I bought this four‑foot‑long, two‑foot‑wide wooden raised garden bed for the herbs and peppers, feeling very “look at me, I’m a gardener now.” The tomatoes got their own pots because I bought them already established and about a foot tall, and I didn’t want to be responsible for killing something that had clearly worked so hard to get that far without me.

Naturally, I placed the garden bed and pots inside my screened‑in porch on the back deck — because in my mind, the outside world was full of bugs, birds, squirrels, raccoons, and possibly tomato‑loving woodland creatures waiting to snatch my produce like it was a Black Friday sale. The herbs were thriving, and a few weeks later, little flowers started popping up on the tomatoes and peppers. I sat out there kvelling over them, sipping a glass of wine like I was admiring my firstborn children.

As I sat there, basking in my newfound plant‑mom glory, it hit me. OH NO. I put these tomatoes and peppers in the screened‑in porch… and now bees can’t pollinate them. I panicked. I thought, “Great. Now I have to move them outside and risk them being eaten alive by the entire cast of Bambi.”

But then — as I sipped my wine — I got a brainstorm. I ran inside, grabbed a tiny little paintbrush (the kind you’d find in a paint‑by‑numbers kit), and I lightly touched the inside of each flower. I went from one to the next like a busy little bee (pun absolutely intended), pollinating them myself. And honestly? I was proud. I got a lot of cherry tomatoes that year, one regular tomato, one small bell pepper, and one small jalapeño (but I planted those too late). Still, I was thrilled because clearly my idea worked.

Last year was my test garden, because I do not exactly have the greenest thumb. Every time I saw more flowers, I repeated the paintbrush routine. And I was happy to do it — I had results!

While I was talking on the phone to Coco — my book collaborator and blog partner — I mentioned that when I get back from vacation on June 18th, I’ll plant everything the same way and do the paintbrush trick again. Coco paused and said, “Paintbrush trick?”

So I told her the entire story. She laughed so hard I thought she was going to pass out. When she finally calmed down, she said:

“Michele… tomatoes and peppers are self‑pollinating.”

As in… they do it themselves. As in… they don’t need bees. They don’t need butterflies. They don’t need my tiny paintbrush. They don’t even really need me. Except water. They do need water. So there’s that.

I went silent. Who knew? I didn’t. I was so quiet she had to ask if I was still there. I finally said:

“Yeah, I’m here. It’s just that this conversation suddenly turned into one of those moments where you realize you’ve been doing WAY too much for something that apparently never needed my help in the first place, ya know?!”

I mean, there I was all summer, meticulously pollinating my own tomatoes and peppers like a dedicated plant midwife. Gently touching each little flower like I was performing IVF and praying for results.

When I tell you, my dear readers, that I was seriously committed to this paintbrush thing every morning…

With a tiny paintbrush. Carefully. Proudly.

Then Coco says, “Oh stop, you’re not an idiot — it’s not like you grew up in the country farming! You lived in Brooklyn, New York.”

All they needed was a little vibration…

A breeze. A bump. A squirrel with an attitude problem.

But they certainly didn’t need me acting like a porch‑side fertility specialist, swirling my brush around like Bob Ross painting happy little trees. There I was, silently questioning every gardening decision I’ve ever made… which clearly wasn’t many.

So if you need me, I’ll be over here letting my plants handle their own business while I retire from my short‑lived career as a tomato and pepper doula.

 

Planter Rick

I know someone who, whenever they got drunk, did something so absurdly weird yet so unintentionally hilarious that you couldn’t even be mad. I won’t say who, so let’s call this person Rick.

Back when I lived in Brooklyn, a group of us would go out to the bars every weekend. And Rick? Rick was that friend. The one who laughed so hard he folded in half like a busted beach chair. The one who did random nonsense out of nowhere, like his brain had a “Surprise Me” button.

Living in Brooklyn, we walked everywhere unless it was more than half a mile away. So one night, after the bars closed at 4 AM (yes, FOUR — Brooklyn nightlife is built different), Rick decided to do something none of us saw coming.

Picture Bay Ridge: rows of private homes, each with a few steps leading up to a cement porch, and on top of those steps? Cement flowerpots. Heavy. Filled with dirt. Filled with plants. Filled with responsibility.

Rick took one.

Not like “picked it up to admire it.” No.

He stole the entire planter like he was auditioning for Ocean’s Eleven: The Gardening Edition.

The next morning, he woke up to find it sitting on the rug in front of his TV like a decorative hostage. He scratched his head, confused, because he didn’t remember taking it.

We told him:

“Rick… you took it home with you. Laughing the entire way. You were giggling like a cartoon villain.” He didn’t believe us, but he shrugged and said he was keeping it.

And then… It became a hobby.

Over the next few weeks, Rick collected planters like Pokémon. He had at least five. Five cement porch planters sitting in his living room like a botanical crime museum.

He watered them (sometimes), but they weren’t getting enough light on the floor of his apartment, so the plants slowly died like they were in witness protection. 

Then one day, Rick woke up and decided he was going to return them.

At 2 AM. Because of course.

He loaded them into his car like he was transporting illegal produce and drove back to the block he always walked down. One by one, he placed planters on porches that didn’t have any. He didn’t know if they were the right houses. He didn’t know if the planters matched. He didn’t know if he was restoring order or creating horticultural chaos.

He was basically the Reverse Porch Bandit.

When he finished, he started laughing hysterically — the silent, doubled‑over, no‑air-coming-out kind of laugh that makes you think someone needs medical attention.

We asked what was so funny, and he (through his laughter) said:

“Can you imagine waking up every day and your planters keep disappearing… and then one day you walk outside and they’re BACK? Like the universe said; my bad?”

We all lost it. Rick’s laughter was contagious - the kind that made you laugh even if you didn’t know what the joke was. And that was the saga of Planter Rick, the only man I’ve ever known who accidentally ran a one‑man planter redistribution program across Bay Ridge.

Bartholomew, His Scroll & That Horse: Part 2

Chef Michele with More State Paperwork (for her business)

 Since Chef Michele is running two businesses and prepping for Signature Spice Blend Sales at a local fair, and trying to keep her spice lab in order, she asked me to step in and write today’s Tuesday story. And honestly? After what I witnessed this week, I’m doing this as a public service.

Let me take you to The Great Pennsylvania Paperwork Meltdown: Part 2.

Yes… part two. Because apparently the universe decided she didn’t suffer enough the first time.

So there we were — on video chat —and she starts cursing at her laptop like it just insulted her mother. She had logged into the State of Pennsylvania’s online portal to fill out some Very Important Business Paperwork, in preparation for the event she will be selling her spice blends at, and within 30 seconds her blood pressure went from “normal” to “NASA launch sequence.”

The screen froze. Then it unfroze. Then it asked her for the same information she had already typed in three times. Then it logged her out for “security reasons,” which is government‑speak for “we got bored and decided to ruin your day.”

At one point she yelled, “WHY DOES THIS WEBSITE HATE ME? WHAT DID I EVER DO TO PENNSYLVANIA?”

I genuinely thought she was going to flip the laptop like a hamburger on a grill.

So, I did what any responsible friend would do: I told her something so ridiculous, so stupid, that she had no choice but to stop spiraling.

I said, “Michele… calm down. Bartholomew and his horse are watching.”

Instant silence. Then she blinked at me. Then she started laughing so hard she actually snorted.

BTW- If you missed Part 1, Bartholomew is the imaginary medieval scribe who was supposed to deliver a letter with a code on it for her to get back into the site to continue with that paperwork. We made up a story together about how she has to wait for a scribe named Bartholomew, that had the scroll with the number she needed (written using a feather quill), while his horse judges her life choices. Apparently, he’s still employed by the State of Pennsylvania, because the website behaved exactly like a man writing on parchment in 1627. (You can scroll down thru her stories to find it if you like!)

Anyway — after the meltdown, the laughter, the horse, the scroll, and the emotional support snack she grabbed afterward, she finally got the paperwork submitted.

And that, dear readers, is why I’m writing today’s story. Chef Michele is alive, the paperwork is done (for now), and Bartholomew has trotted off into the sunset until the next time Pennsylvania decides to test her sanity.

Tune in next week for whatever chaos she gets into next — because with Michele, there’s always more chaos.

Sincerely,

Coco Ashford

Collaborator 

 

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY THAT WASN’T

Many moons ago, in another life, I had this longtime friend — we’ll call her Kelly. Our birthdays are one day apart, so one year she suggested we throw a “joint birthday party”. Cute idea, right? Shared friends, shared food, shared fun. A wholesome little Gemini- adjacent celebration.

She said she’d handle the food and cake. I should’ve heard the ominous music right there.

But no — I wanted to do something too, so I chipped in for decorations, handed her the cash up front and told her I’d make some food too. I showed up with three appetizers, a tray of baked ziti, my wine, and my then‑husband.

I walked in expecting a festive birthday explosion.

Instead?

Not. One. Balloon. Not a streamer. Not a banner. Not even a sad, wrinkled “Happy Birthday” napkin someone found under the passenger seat of their car.

Nothing. The room décor had the same energy as a DMV waiting area.

And the guest list? Her husband, her brothers, her sister‑in‑law, her local friends, her teenage daughters… And exactly zero of our mutual friends.

But I stayed quiet as a church mouse. I was trying to be a Trooper. Not like a State Trooper — just a trooper trying to survive the social apocalypse.

I told myself, “It’s fine. I’ll ask for my money back later. Just enjoy the night. Drink your wine. Pretend this is normal.”

Then came the cake.

They bring it out… glowing with candles and I smiled. They put it down on the table… and it says:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KELLY

Not “Kelly & Michele.” Not “Happy Birthday, Ladies!” Not even a generic “Happy Birthday” that could’ve covered both of us like a blanket of dignity.

Nope. Just Kelly — bold, centered, and smug.

Then the singing starts. And now I’m standing next to her, forcing a smile like a hostage in a ransom video.

“Happy Birthday dear Kelly…Happy Birthday to you!” My name was treated like Voldemort —" He Who Must Not Be Named”

I swear I felt my soul leave my body, hover above the room, and yelled, “Girl, run!”

I leaned over to my husband and whispered, “WTF just happened??”

Then — THEN — Kelly turns to me and says:

“Do you want to cut the cake?”

My inside voice said to myself “Ma’am. I wouldn’t cut that cake if it were the last carbohydrate on Earth.”

I leaned in real close to her and said, “I’m not cutting your cake — we’re cutting OUT.”

She blinked at me like a confused goldfish caught in a whirlpool.

“Already? Why?”

I couldn’t even form words. I just pointed at the cake… Pointed at the walls… Waved my arms like Ralph Kramden in a Honeymooner’s episode as if his spirit took me over.

Finally, I managed to say: “Things seem to be missing.”

She blamed the decorations on “not having time” and the cake writing on her husband that purchased the cake — as if the man didn’t know this was a joint party. Maybe he didn’t. Honestly, at this point, I’m not convinced she knew.

I told her none of that explained why I wasn’t included in the Happy Birthday singing. It was obvious not one person in that room knew this was a joint anything.

I told her to either send me a check for the invisible decorations or keep the cash and buy a new friend who actually cared. Then I wished her well with the rest of her party and left.

She called to apologize the next day. We “sort of” stayed friendly for a bit… until years later when she said something so off‑color and insulted someone I care about that even her own husband whipped his head around and yelled, “KELLY!!!”

That was the moment the friendship didn’t just end — it nosedived, and burst into flames, like a stunt from MythBusters.

We gathered our things, left, and never looked back.

Yes, it’s a ridiculous story. Yes, it’s kind of sad. But it’s also SO absurd you HAVE to laugh. I didn’t then — but I do now. So don’t feel bad. Just laugh with me!

THE TAKEAWAY

Sometimes the universe doesn’t send you red flags — it sends you a joint birthday cake with one name on it. And when that happens, you learn two things:

1.  Apparently “Joint” Can mean something plural or singular!
2. You can always walk away with your wine, and the knowledge that failing friendships eventually show cracks in the frosting.

Birthday Meteor Reading

Category Score Funny Notes Awkward Silence 7/10 You could hear the candles questioning their life. Social Confusion 9/10 A joint party with one birthday girl. Bold move. Internal Screaming 11/10 The cake spelled it out louder than anyone could. Humor in Hindsight 8/10 Painful then, comedic now.

 

THE MISSING DEBIT

The other night, we went to dinner with a couple of friends. I told my husband that dinner was on me — which, in Michele‑language, means I am paying for it out of my personal account, not the household joint account.

We ate, we talked, we drank, we laughed — it was lovely. The check came, and I reached into my bag for my wallet like the responsible adult I pretend to be.

Except… My personal debit card was not in the wallet.

Did I panic? No. Because this is me, and I know myself. I often toss my debit card into my bag like an unorganized ferret instead of putting it neatly back into my wallet. I figured it was floating around in there somewhere between a pen, a receipt from 2019, and a rogue cough drop.

I searched the bag.

Nothing.

So, I shrugged, whipped out my personal credit card, paid the bill, and thought, “Eh, I probably left the debit card on my desk after online shopping. No big deal.”

Fast‑forward to home. I checked my office. I checked my jackets. I checked the pockets of things I haven’t worn since the Obama administration.

Nothing.

Now I’m thinking, “Great. Someone is out there buying a Rolex and a set of copper pots with my card.”

So I log into my bank account to check for suspicious activity. Nothing. Not even a $1 test charge. (If someone found it, they were being very polite about it.)

Now… let’s rewind to earlier that day.

I had received a new debit card in the mail —The old one was expiring, so I activated the new one after breakfast like the responsible grown‑up I try to be. (Though challenging at times!)

I put the new card in my wallet. I took the old one out to cut up. I placed it on my desk while I finished a few things. Then I went into the kitchen, grabbed the heavy‑duty scissors, and began my Michele Card‑Destruction Ritual:

• Cut it lengthwise Across the middle of the numbers
• Cut it widthwise across each group of numbers
• Cut the chip
• Scatter the pieces into two separate trash cans like I’m disposing of evidence on CSI: Greentown PA

I’ve been doing this system for years. It’s foolproof. It’s secure.

 I hope.

Now fast‑forward back to after the restaurant...

My husband walks into my office and says, “I have a weird question for you.”

Which, in marriage, is never followed by anything normal.

I said, “OK, hit me with it!”

He goes, “Is it possible you cut up the wrong debit card earlier?”

I froze. I stared. I blinked. My soul hovered above us, and whispered, “Oh yes- she did.”

Then I said, “OMG. YES. I DID! I cut up the light blue one. That’s my personal debit card! The one I was supposed to cut up is silver! I checked my wallet. YEP! Silver card still there!

So now guess who gets to march into the bank and explain this to someone who definitely did not get paid enough for this level of chaos.

“Hi, yes, I need a new debit card because I… uh… murdered mine. On purpose. But also by accident…

 It’s complicated.”

THE TAKEAWAY:

Sometimes the biggest threat to your financial security isn’t identity theft, hackers, or scammers… It’s you, a pair of heavy‑duty scissors, and a moment of overconfidence.

THE METEOR READING

Category Score                Notes Card Chaos Index 10/10 You didn’t just lose your debit card — you professionally destroyed it. Self‑Inflicted Drama   9/10 A plot twist even the bank teller won’t see coming. Weird Question Accuracy  10/10 He cracked the case faster than a true‑crime podcaster. Recovery & Replacement   9/10 Marching into the bank to confess is the real punishment.

 

 

 

THEY CRAWL AMONG US: A BROOKLYN SURVIVAL SAGA

Three Tales of Terror, and Questionable Life Choices

PART I — The Bathtub Olympics:

When I was five, we moved to an apartment in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn on 95th Street and 4th Avenue — prime real estate if you enjoy the soothing rumble of the RR subway line and the occasional prehistoric water bug paying rent‑free visits.

Summertime meant one thing: humidity, open windows, fans and water bugs the size of toddlers taking the express train straight into our building. Every now and then, one would wander into our apartment like it was checking on its mail after vacation.

One night, my sister was babysitting me while my parents were out. She went into the bathroom and saw a water bug that had risen from the bathtub drain like it was making a dramatic entrance on Broadway.

She screamed. I screamed. The bug probably screamed internally.

What does my teenage sister decide to do?

Drown it. 

A water bug.

She turns on the faucet full blast, yelling for me to grab the broom, like it was the standard‑issue Brooklyn home‑defense equipment. I sprint, hand her the broom, and she starts holding this huge bug underwater like she’s baptizing it against its will.

Every time she thought it was dead, she’d lift the broom — and that sucker would swim like it was training for the Olympics. Freestyle. Backstroke. Butterfly. It had better form than half the Olympic swim team.

I don’t remember how she finally killed it, but knowing my sister, she probably grabbed a shoe and handled it Brooklyn‑style, like a Mother that heard her kid curse for the first time.

When my parents came home, she told them the whole traumatic saga. My father laughed. She snapped, “It’s not funny!”

He just looked at her and said:

“Linda… they’re called water bugs. Why do you think that is?”

She stared at him, processing the betrayal of biology.

“Oh. Yeah.”

What more could she say.

PART II — The Scream

Fast‑forward to age 23. I rented a “basement” apartment — which, in Brooklyn, is code for “you will meet creatures evolution forgot.”

The water bugs in this apartment weren’t normal. They were the size of cabs. They came from a creepy unfinished space where the pipes lived, behind a hollow‑core door that absolutely should’ve had a warning label.

I only saw two of these monsters in the year I lived there. One my boyfriend killed. The other… well.

I was doing dishes, minding my business, when my dog made a weird noise behind me. I turned to look at him — and when I turned back, a water bug was sitting eight inches from my face on the cabinet next to the sink, like it was waiting for me to finish rinsing the plate.

I let out a scream so sharp, so loud, so primal, that the bug literally fell off the cabinet and died on the spot!

I don’t know if I:

Shocked it to death

Ruptured its internal organs with soundwaves

Or if it simply said, “You know what? I’m done.”

But it was dead.

Dead as a doornail.

Killed by the power of my vocal cords.

Whitney Houston would have been proud.

PART III — The Babies

I went to my boyfriend’s mother’s apartment to pick up soup she made for us. She told me to grab one of her saved 3‑lb. butter tubs from the cabinet — because in Brooklyn, every household has a stack of those tubs that have lived a lifetime.

I ladled the soup, while chatting with her, went home, and heated some up because I was starving.

It was delicious. Vegetables, noodles, chicken, herbs…

Except the herbs looked a little strange.

I grabbed a magnifying glass — because apparently, I was Sherlock Holmes that day and what I saw would haunt me forever.

Floating in my soup were:

Teeny‑weenie baby cockroaches

Legs sprawled

Antennae...

Tiny corpses, because they heard water bugs don’t drown so they said:

 “Watch this —   hold my beer.”

But the reality set in… I had ingested many baby roaches! My bowl was nearly empty!

I ran to the bathroom and puked like I was auditioning for an exorcism movie. Then I bagged the container, tied it like radioactive waste, and marched it outside to the trash cans.

Brooklyn had betrayed me.

THE TAKEAWAY:

Some things can’t be drowned.

Some things can be screamed dead.

And some things need to be looked at before it’s ladled into a butter tub.

Bug Meteor Score

Category                                    Score                                              Notes

Linda’s Survival Instincts    4/10      Attempted to drown a bug literally designed for water.

Water Bug Athleticism         9/10     Olympic‑level swimming, questionable morals.

My Scream Power              10/10     A scream capable of killing! I received an offer by the CIA.

Basement Apt. Horror          8/10     One hollow‑core door away from the Discovery Channel

Soup Trauma                      11/10      Exceeded legal limits for emotional damage.

Dad’s Brooklyn Logic        10/10      Delivered the perfect one‑liner with zero sympathy.

Overall Brooklyn Chaos       8/10      A trilogy of terror only a true New Yorker survives.

 

THE NEW CHOCOLATE BROWN CARPET

A Domestic Thriller Featuring Poor Sisterly Decisions

When I was around 13 (I think), we were living in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, and my mother was remarried to Bob. My sister wasn’t living at home anymore, but she came over on weekends — which meant the chaos level in the apartment rose by at least 40% the moment she walked through the door.

My mother and Bob had just purchased brand‑new chocolate brown carpeting. Plush. Fancy. The kind of carpet you tiptoe on because it still smells like the store. They had it laid through the large living room and both hallways that connected to the kitchen.

So naturally, this was the perfect time for my sister and me to behave like unsupervised circus performers.

We were goofing off in the kitchen — I don’t remember what started it, but Jell‑O or pudding was involved, and at some point I took whipped cream and either threw it at her or smeared it on her. The details are fuzzy because 51 years later the memories aren’t 100%, but the consequences were crystal clear.

Because my sister came after me with the vengeance of a woman who had just been personally insulted by her dessert partner.

I bolted through the short hallway into the living room, where my mother and Bob were watching TV. I guess I thought they’d save me. They did not. All they saw my sister chasing me with a can of Reddi‑whip like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact moment. She was fully armed and ready to pull the nozzle!

Every time she got close, she’d squirt it — little puffs of white flying past my head like warning shots.

I made a sharp turn and sprinted back through the short hallway, into the kitchen, and down the long hallway toward the bathroom. Now my mother and Bob were involved — not to save me, but to save the carpet.

Linda was chasing me.

Mom and Bob were chasing Linda.

Parents yelling.

We were laughing.

Whipped cream was flying.

The new chocolate brown carpet was being polka‑dotted in real time.

I ignored my mother yelling “Knock it off! You’re getting it all over the new carpet!” I only knew I had one mission: reach the bathroom and lock the door like my life depended on it.

But Linda was too close behind me — still squirting whipped cream every chance she got — so when I turned to slam the bathroom door shut, she was right there in my face, squirting away like it was a fire extinguisher in a five‑alarm emergency.

Then she shoved me into the bathtub and unloaded the entire can on me from head to toe. I looked like a human sundae.

My mother grabbed the empty can from Linda, furious.

My sister and I were hysterical laughing.

Mom and Bob were not.

Because we had left a literal trail — of bright white whipped‑cream splatters across the entire apartment. Every hallway. The living room. The kitchen. The bathroom.

The brand‑new chocolate brown carpet looked like it was made of cow hide.

Our punishment?

Clean. Every. Inch. Of. It. Up.

And let me tell you — nothing bonds siblings like scrubbing dairy out of carpet fibers while your mother mutters something about “never having nice things.”

THE TAKEAWAY:

Sometimes the danger isn’t dessert — it’s the sibling holding the can.

New carpet never stands a chance against sibling quarrels.

And when whipped cream becomes a weapon, survival tactics kick in!

SIBLINGS METEOR SCORE

Category                       Score                           Notes

Linda’s Vengeance              9/10     Like a woman in a covert operation

Reddi-Whip Accuracy         7/10     Impressive while sprinting thru hallways

Carpet Casualties                 9/10    Chocolate brown + Reddi‑whip = Cow hide

Parental Outrage                10/10    Activated once the carpet got involved

Survival Instincts                 9/10    Door‑locking idea: solid. Execution: Flawed

Household Chaos               10/10    Full chase sequence with multiple participants

Cleanup Punishment          11/10    Nothing humbles siblings like scrubbing carpet

 

 

Trivia Night & Meatballs

While I was trying to figure out what to bring to Trivia Night for six of us, I was drawing a complete blank. I had just started a diet, so I didn’t want to bring anything fattening, and everything I thought of felt wrong. I was pacing around like I was planning a state dinner instead of a bite-sized snack.

So I texted Coco — my Forks & Fiascos partner‑in‑crime and cookbook collaborator, because it was dinnertime in London and I didn’t want to interrupt her if she was driving home  or eating. A text felt safer. She could answer right away or ignore me until she was ready.

She answered instantly with a phone call. Of course she did. And just like that, we were in full brainstorming mode.

Coco threw out at least twelve ideas — all great, all creative, all totally unusable because my husband has a picky side, and a long list of food aversions.

Before we go any further, let’s pause and appreciate the Roger No‑Food List, because it deserves its own wing:

THE ROGER NO‑FOOD LIST

❌ No tomatoes

❌ No cucumbers

❌ No un-melted cheese (only melted mozzarella or Muenster — the man has rules)

❌ No mustard

❌ No fruit (but grape jam is okay —  And bacon Jam is fine! Who can argue with bacon?)

❌ No deviled eggs

❌ No hummus

❌ No spinach

❌ No olives

❌ No mayo

❌ No ham, pepperoni, salami

❌ No mushrooms

❌ No peppers

❌ No parmesan cheese or similar (he says it smells like feet and calls it Stinky-cheese!)

❌ No butter (unless it’s for garlic bread) Oh, and I can cook with it!

❌ No sour cream

❌ No corn or Brussels sprouts

❌ No pork sausages, but chicken sausages is ok, and NO hot dogs

Just a few of his dislikes- there’s probably more, but this is what came to me at the time of this writing.

At this point, I’m not planning a snack. I’m planning a mission.

The Trivia Night snack had to be:

·         Room‑temp safe for two hours

·         Finger food

·         Healthy-ish

·         Something Roger would actually eat

·         Something the group would enjoy

Basically, I needed to create a unicorn.

Coco and I kept bouncing ideas back and forth until suddenly — EPIPHANY. A lightning bolt. A full download from the culinary heavens...

I remembered I had mini meatballs in the freezer. Some Greek & some a Mexican flare. I had mini filo cups. And chili fig jam. So I said to Coco:

“What if I put a dab of chili fig jam in the bottom of the filo cup, add a Mexican meatball, and drizzle it with an apple‑cider‑honey glaze… and then take the Greek meatballs, soak them in Greek vinaigrette, put bacon jam in the bottom of the cup, and top it with the vinaigrette‑soaked meatball?”

Coco practically screamed through the phone. It was perfect. It was elegant.

 It was healthy-ish.

 It was Roger‑safe.

 It was so ME.

It took a long time- But we had solved it.

Then… Roger walked into my home office with the mail.

I told Coco “Hold on”- I turned to him, and proudly shared my brilliant, gourmet appetizer plan!

And this man — THIS MAN — looked at me and said:

“I don’t know why you were having such a hard time figuring this out. The group always has cookies and chips. We can just buy a bag of pretzels and call it a day.”

I blinked. I stared. I briefly considered divorce (playfully of course!)

He left the room.

Then I got back to Coco:

“Do you want to hear something that made me want to throw Roger out of the room?”

 Naturally she said yes. I told her what he said.

Her response...

“Michele… I knew it. I KNEW IT. This is SO Roger and I am absolutely howling. Seriously, people are staring at me right now! LOL You’re over there like Top Chef, engineering two gourmet canapé flights out of frozen leftover meatballs, filo cups, jams and drizzles… and this man strolls in like: “I’m fine with chips.”

HAS HE EVEN MET YOU? He is married to a chef, a published cookbook author, and a woman who can turn frozen leftover meatballs into a Michelin‑level appetizer. And he’s like:

“Eh, I’ll eat a Chips Ahoy.”

 This man would survive the apocalypse with burnt toast, a well‑done steak, a sleeve of Oreos and peanut butter stuffed onions. Because in his world:

·         Burnt = Flavor

·        Well done steak = Perfect

·         Peanut‑Butter‑stuffed onions = Intriguing (he LITERALLY said he’d eat that!)

And now… Pretzels, cookies or chips = Problem solved?

Me: I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. I had completely forgotten about the peanut‑butter‑stuffed onions, where Roger stated to me “I would eat that” … and now I was laughing all over again. (Sidenote: The Peanut Butter Stuffed Onions was one of our Recipe Ridicules.)

Coco continued ...

“Michele, this is why your stories are funny. Your life is already a sitcom, and Roger is the lovable food gremlin who keeps giving you material. You’re going to show up with a great appetizer for your teams trivia table — and he’ll be eating a Lorna Doon."

... And in the end, after ALL that- no one wanted to even try the meatballs, not ONE! Apparently, some people just don’t like to try new things- what can I say? I thought they were great! But how many can I eat by myself? So, I gave them to the next table over from us, and guess what? They loved them!  Next time, I’m bringing a bag of pretzels!

 

The Takeaway:

You can engineer the perfect appetizer, but you can’t make people try it! Hmmm, sounds like a familiar saying! Even when the plan goes sideways, there’s always someone at the next table who will eat! 

Meteor Reading: Trivia Night Meatballs Edition

Category Score Funny Notes Culinary Creativity   9/10 Gourmet canapés for people who wanted chips. Roger Logic 12/10 “Why struggle? Just bring pretzels.” Classic. Group Appreciation    3/10 The meatballs were invisible to them. Next‑Table Redemption 10/10 Finally-  people with functioning taste buds. Sitcom Chaos Level    8/10 Coco screaming, me laughing, Roger being Roger.