The thing is. Bad/gross food is rarely a DISH - when food is bad it's because it's been badly made, whether because of skills or available ingredients. but a dish p much only exists recognisably and has a name because someone likes at least one version of it.
which is to say. there isn't really a way of naming a dish, school of dishes or specific food culture and going EW ISN'T THIS DISH UNILATERALLY CONCEPTUALLY DISGUSTING without denigrating quite a lot of people.
like you don't have to like it in any form. but it's eaten and shared because it's good to a not insubstantial number of people when cooked right.
(and I don't really understand how you approach that with total incuriosity when it's a dish you haven't tried like. ARE rocky mountain oysters good? Maybe! I would very much eat some to find out!!!!)
this is actually something the British food poll did in a way the American ones I've seen haven't really - they described how the food they're imagining is, specifically, badly prepared (grey meat and veggies; unseasoned shepherd's pie). which is wildly tipping the scales by calling it British Food but. like. that is an on point definition of why that food is gross.
(this also applies to American chocolate, which like. Broad category but I think most of us understand this refers to low-cocoa high-sugar chocolate, probably with bucolic acid. so we are being invited to imagine Badly Made Chocolate not. the concept of chocolate)
personally I just think it's very rarely a good or funny idea to shittalk how gross any given food culture is. partly because food is important and culturally evocative for most people, partly because it's very...alienating? to be like WHO COULD EAT SUCH A THING? just because you wouldn't, and largely because to be frank it says more about you than about the food that you have so little imagination or curiosity that you can't imagine why a food might be enjoyable to folks who aren't you.
yes this includes jello salad, I would like to try it. ONCE. if it wasn't appealing to someone it wouldn't be so widespread.
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turkport for @needcake; 820 words, based on the prompt: "ow! that hurt!"
Solid
One moment, they are having fun outside in the snow—snow that has come to greet them while they are holidaying away in the Netherlands—and the next, someone cries out in pain, and the fun stops.
“Ow!” Henrique winces, hand to his face. He hisses, he blinks—his eyes blow wide for a few seconds—and then he states: “That hurt…”
Sadık suddenly panics. He hurries over and takes Henrique’s face in his own hands before the other can protest or fend him off, and looks at the area the snowball must have hit. His skin is red (not just from the cold) and his left eye is watering.
It must have been a close call.
"I'm so sorry," Sadık says, "are you okay?"
"Yeah, just about," Henrique replies, blinking away the residual stinging as a smile stretches onto his face. He has always been good at pretending his pain does not exist. "It's a bit rude of you to throw a great big ball of ice at me, though, don't you think?" he jests all the while.
Sadık tuts. If humour will help him cope, then, "Sorry," he repeats, "but I thought you were a fan of being hit in the face by big balls, no?"
Henrique very nearly smacks him in the face in retaliation, but, in lieu of that, he instead pushes the other's hands away from his face. "Very funny," the Portuguese victim responds. "I'd be careful what you say next, however, if you want those big balls of yours to stay in one piece."
"I appreciate the indirect compliment," Sadık concedes, and he glances again at the red patch of skin. "Are you sure you're okay?" he duly asks. "It does look quite sore, canım.”
“And what do you want to do about it?” Henrique returns. “Put some more ice on it?”
Again, Sadık tuts, and again, Henrique brushes him off. He continues to act as though he’s fine, as though he is not bothered, as though that snowball to the face didn’t hurt. But Sadık remains unconvinced. He feels bad—feels guilty. It doesn’t matter if the other now smiles, and has figuratively picked himself back up. That red patch is glaring at Sadık, the villain he is, and he—
“Hey.”
Sadık almost stumbles back, not realising how close Henrique had gotten to him again. The other looks up at him—their faces are so close, he can almost feel their breath mixing in the frosty Dutch air—and in his eyes lies a question left unspoken, and unheard.
“I’m fine,” the Turk assures him. He musters up a smile, his hand comes to cup the other’s face, and he even dares press the most delicate kiss upon Henrique’s cheek. The already red patch seems to gently darken. “I love you, you know.”
“Aww, I love you, too,” Henrique coos, nearly beaming, “even if you are an idiot, sometimes.”
A gasp—nothing but hot air—escapes Sadık. “Me? I’m the idiot?” he scoffs. “Who’s the one who got hit in the face by a snowball?”
“It was more ice than snow!”
“I said I was sorry!”
“Yeah, well, you’re lucky my beauty comes from more than just my face!” Henrique throws at him, along with that signature barely-there-pout he has perfected. “And that there were no witnesses, for that matter!”
“Do you want me to get onto my knees and grovel? Because I’ll do it,” Sadık says, hands raised in mock surrender. “You know I’d happily get on my knees for you.”
“There—” Henrique seems to do a double take. “There’s a time and place for things like that!”
Sadık agrees wholeheartedly. “Like in our hotel room,” he supposes, “maybe even this evening, if you wanted.”
“Sadık…”
“I’d do it!”
“I know you would, my love,” the other responds, just shy of sighing, “but you really don’t need to. It was an accident. It happens. God knows I’ve smacked you countless times in the middle of the night.”
“But your poor, beautiful, perfect face…”
He sticks out his bottom lip and, once more, holds the other’s face in his hands. Each time he gets to hold it—even see it, bask in it, cherish it—he feels luckier than before. It is no different right there, right then. He looks at Henrique and Henrique looks at him and Sadık simply can’t help himself.
“I love you,” he says again. And again. And again after that. In between each profession comes a pecked kiss, short and sweet, right against soft, cold lips, and by the end of the onslaught, he almost wishes he could do it all over again.
But, Henrique stops him. He says, “You really are an idiot,” and instead lets their noses touch, gently run against each other, and then separate. “But,” he then presses, “you are my idiot, which is all I care about.”
“Yours, eh?”
“Mmh, mine,” Henrique smiles. “Mine, all mine.”
Sadık rather likes the sound of that.
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