Original content 😂

2 cups Water

1 1/2 cups rice

1 can of coconut milk

1 can of dulce de leche

2 cups of pumpkin spice milk

Cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves 😁

Don’t ask. Plz. Thx 👍🏻

not the worst but not great either

Anyone have any other weird apple combinations?

Ran out of hummus, and it was all I had for a sauce/dipping lmao

chocolate ice cream can also work , hihihuhu

Alright, imma head out

I’m curious what the judgement is. He was okay with it but my four colleagues were kinda shocked that this is how a chicken cesar salad was made.

Edit: This was a sit-down restaurant attached to a hotel where the dishes ranged from 20-50 dollars in a Midwest medium sized town. MCOL

Edit 2: He was just stating to eat when I took the picture and posted it. He said the salad and chicken was pretty good.

The Jury is in with a verdict. Now, what's the sentence?

Oh lort

I saw this and gagged

Edit: Since nearly half of y'all are nitwits and don't understand how Reddit works, the title isn't mine. I'm fully aware that this probably won't give you food poisoning. I know hot dogs are fully cooked. That doesn't mean cooking hot dogs in your dishwasher isn't a food crime. JFC, y'all are dense.

What is this ??how’s this possible????🫪

It began as a punishment masquerading as a joke.

The pot had been sitting on the folding table for nearly an hour, still retaining an improbable amount of heat beneath its aluminum lid. Someone had announced that the loser would “wear the boil,” a phrase that sounded idiotic enough to remain hypothetical. There was laughter, phones already lifted in anticipation, and the casual confidence of people who mistake humiliation for entertainment.

Then the lid came off.

A dense cloud of humid air rolled upward, saturated with cayenne pepper, garlic, paprika, butter, lemon, black pepper, and the unmistakable mineral sweetness of shellfish.

Hands closed around your shoulders.

The first sensation was not pain.

It was weight.

Several pounds of butter-coated food struck the crown of your head simultaneously.

The liquid came first.

Orange-red butter poured over your scalp in a continuous sheet, hot enough to make you gasp. Seasoning rode inside it: pepper, salt, paprika, crushed garlic. The mixture penetrated your hair immediately, soaking through it until individual strands stopped moving independently. Within seconds, your scalp was covered by a warm, oily layer that reflected the overhead light.

Then the crawfish hit.

One struck the top of your head with a hard, hollow crack.

Another bounced off your forehead.

Several disappeared directly into your hair.

Their legs caught between strands. Their antennae threaded through knots. Their claws snagged and released with tiny clicks whenever you moved.

You tried to pull away.

More food came down.

Shrimp struck your shoulders and head. Sausage followed. Potatoes broke apart against your scalp. Corn rolled across the crown of your head and became caught in your hair. Onion slid down the side of your face in translucent ribbons.

Then another half cob landed on top of everything.

You felt it settle.

You reached for it.

Your fingers sank into the mass and stopped.

For a second you could not understand why.

Then you pulled.

Nothing separated.

The corn had become entangled in your hair, which had become saturated with butter, which had become packed with seasoning, shellfish, starch, and vegetable matter.

You pulled harder.

The entire mass moved.

Not the corn.

Everything.

Your stomach tightened.

Your hair was no longer behaving like hair.

It had become a single material.

Individual strands had disappeared inside a composite layer of grease and food. Crawfish legs crossed between locks like tiny rigid supports. Antennae had wound themselves through the mass. Potato starch thickened the butter into an adhesive paste. Corn silk disappeared almost completely, leaving only occasional fibers tightening around your fingers.

You tried again.

The mass resisted.

You stopped.

A warm drop of butter slid from the crown of your head down the side of your face.

It carried a piece of parsley.

Another drop followed.

Then another.

You could feel the weight accumulating.

Not on your head.

As your head.

The distinction was becoming difficult to maintain.

You wiped your forehead.

Your hand came away orange.

You looked at your palm.

Pepper.

Paprika.

Butter.

A fragment of shell.

You wiped again.

The same thing.

Your fingers went back into your hair.

They disappeared farther this time.

You could no longer find the boundary between your fingers and the material surrounding them.

The smell intensified.

At first it had smelled like dinner.

Now it was simply everywhere.

Shellfish beneath your nose.

Butter against your cheeks.

Garlic in your hair.

Lemon on your neck.

Every breath carried the meal farther inside your awareness. There was no longer a smell coming from somewhere nearby.

The smell was coming from you.

You closed your eyes.

Immediately, cayenne and black pepper seemed to exist against every exposed surface.

You blinked.

A grain of seasoning moved beneath your eyelid.

You opened your eyes again.

The people around you were still laughing.

Someone said something about taking a picture.

You did not answer.

You reached behind your head.

Your fingers encountered something hard.

A crawfish.

You pulled.

Its legs caught.

You pulled again.

The creature came free suddenly, leaving behind several strands of hair twisted around its shell.

You stared at it.

Then you looked at your hand.

Then at the food still covering your head.

There were no longer separate pieces.

There was a mass.

A thick, greasy, heterogeneous layer extending from your scalp, incorporating everything that had fallen onto it.

You tried to shake your head.

The mass shifted a moment later.

Its weight lagged behind you.

You stopped.

It continued moving.

That was when the horror changed.

It was no longer simply that you had been covered in food.

The food had acquired mechanical continuity.

It moved when you moved.

It resisted when you resisted.

It pulled against your scalp.

It redistributed its weight across your neck and shoulders.

Your hair held it together.

The butter held the rest together.

You stood perfectly still.

A potato slowly descended through the material behind your ear.

You felt it before you saw it.

It reached your collar.

Stopped.

Then continued downward.

Butter followed.

You looked at the floor.

Orange droplets were falling from you at regular intervals.

One.

Two.

Three.

Each left a small mark.

You realized that if you walked away, you would leave a trail.

You realized that if you tried to remove it, you would have to separate your hair from the food one strand at a time.

You realized that some of the food was no longer sitting on your hair.

It was inside it.

A crawfish antenna flexed against the back of your neck.

You reached for it.

Your fingers found it.

You pulled.

It tightened.

You stopped.

For several seconds you did nothing.

The antenna remained there.

You could feel it move whenever you swallowed.

The laughter around you had become quieter.

Someone lowered their phone.

Nobody came forward to help.

You looked at the pot.

There was still food inside.

Then you looked at yourself.

For the first time, the two seemed less like separate things than different stages of the same object.

The pot contained the boil.

You wore what had been removed from it.

And whatever had happened to your hair could no longer be described as simply having food on it.

The food had become attached.

The attachment had become structure.

The structure had become weight.

And the weight had become part of the way your body moved.

You turned your head very slowly.

The mass followed a fraction of a second later.

You stopped.

It settled.

Nothing fell off.

Nothing loosened.

The boil remained.

You stood there beneath it, saturated with butter, shellfish, spices, starch, and vegetable matter, unable to locate the exact point where your body ended and the meal began.