Everybody has had their parents make something they didn't like for dinner at some point. These are stories of people whose family made them absolutely hideous food
One Catastrophic Dish
“My mom made (and still makes) a dish called Cat heads. It’s basically chicken with cream of celery, some vegetables, and a bit of stew inside two rolled up crescent rolls. It looks exactly like a shaved, cooked cat’s head, so she called it that, and we have it every Christmas.”
I Should Stop Eating That
“My mom used to make a Vietnamese noodle dish called bun rieu but didn’t always have time to make it from scratch, so she often used a canned broth.
I am allergic to peanuts and Every time she made this dish I would complain to her that I didn’t want to eat anymore because my lips were swelling up and I was itchy.
She is having none of that sass obviously and makes me eat the whole bowl.
Few years down the line she decides to read the ingredients label on the back and just says ‘eh….you probably should stop eating that'”
Torture Chamber For My Guts
“We used to have to go eat once a week at my in-laws’ house, and every week, it was a disgusting adventure of sadness.
One of the first weeks, my ex-mother-in-law made chili, and being from Texas I was excited to hear that’s what was for dinner. Except this chili was made by pouring a bottle of ketchup into a saucepan and adding ground beef. It was basically ketchup soup.
Another week, my ex-father-in-law grilled steaks, and my hopes were quickly dashed when I told him I liked mine medium rare and was quickly informed that everyone got theirs the same way… well done. Not just well done, but entirely burnt to a crisp, drier than the Sahara, done.
Other things were just weird, smothering pork chops with mustard, deep frying EVERYTHING. I have some wicked Irritable Bowel Syndrome, so each week was like a trip to a torture chamber for my guts. Oh, and I didn’t eat this one, but once my ex-wife’s mom apparently bought tins of a seafood medley cat food and made sandwiches with it to serve at a potluck, labeling them ‘seafood sandwiches’ because she thought it sounded fancy.”
Why Didn’t Y’all Tell Me It Was Bad
“Sweet peas my wife cooked.
She used a pot that apparently still had dish washing soap residue on it from a new brand of soap she was trying. Apparently that particular brand has a thicker soap than others and didn’t rinse off completely. Her father was over, and she made his favorite meal as a surprise. Ranch spiced pork chops, buttered croissant rolls, sweet peas and garlic mashed potatoes. He and I sat down and starting eating and both noticed that the peas tasted…uh…soapy. We looked at each other as if in recognition (of the taste) and agreement (to not say a word). These peas tasted awful, but my wife can be very emotional, so we weren’t going to say a thing.
My wife finished making our daughter’s plate, then her own, and finally sat down to eat. She got probably two bites into the peas, said they tasted like dish soap and then asked us what we thought. We agreed with her, eyes down like scolded school children, and she proceeded to ask why we were still eating them if they tasted like that. Then we felt scolded even more, on top of our blatant ignorance in her eyes. Even our daughter started to eat them, not wanting to mention the taste because her mom had been working so hard on that meal for all of us.
The peas went in the trash, and we finished the meal. Her father burst out laughing at her reaction. Still to this day, when my wife tells our daughter that we are having sweet peas, she asks if they are the soapy kind or regular.”
That Was Made The Year I Was Born
“My grandma has this notion that canning food somehow means never goes bad. She’s done her own home canning for decades, and hates waste. One year she told me to go grab a jar of the grape juice from the storage room (think basement grocery store with shelving and everything). I’ve always loved her homemade grape juice, it’s so delicious, but I came back up with the most recent bottle (canned 1988, 21 years previously!) and told her, ‘Grandma, this was canned the year I was born, I don’t think it’s safe to drink.’
To which she said, ‘Don’t be silly, it’s canned dear! It’s fine.’
Yeah, I didn’t drink it. She’s Mormon and would not appreciate the joke but I told my dad she should’ve just casked it, and then she’d have a pretty good chardonnay collection. Seriously though, how that woman hasn’t died of botulism or some strange parasite is beyond me.”
Peawiggle Doesn’t Sound All That Appetizing
“We were beyond poor, so many of my mother’s creations were simply a matter of making do with what we had. That didn’t make them any more palatable, though.
The two most memorable: Canned peas cooked in powdered milk and served over toast. She called it ‘peawiggle.’ We had it at least once a month. The other dish was canned spaghetti sauce and a slice of surplus cheese placed on a slice of bread and toasted in the oven. This was ‘poor man’s pizza.’ I actually loved this as a kid, although when tried it again a few years ago and was less impressed.
Not everything can be credited to a lack of money. She used to slice up kielbasa and steam it. The result was very much like Styrofoam chips.”
There’s Something Up With That Creamed Corn
“When I was a kid, I begged for AGES to have creamed corn. I don’t know why it was bad or how it had gone off, but I remember sitting at the middle seat of the table, so stoked about my creamed corn that I went for it first. It tasted completely and utterly awful. So bad, that I didn’t eat creamed corn again for years after that. Being the great child I was, I choked it all down, because I would have felt like such a little prick if I didn’t.
When my parents finally got around to having theirs, they realized the corn was unfit for consumption, looked bashfully at me, and asked how it was. I nodded, and they proceeded to inform me that the corn had gone bad, and I shouldn’t have eaten it. Through my embarrassment, I said I didn’t want them to be mad at me for going through the trouble of finally making it, and then me not eating it.
My mom was extremely apologetic, and said they wouldn’t be mad at me if I didn’t eat food that spoiled. I think they were both embarrassed for having ignored my request for so long and then presenting me with food poisoning in a bowl.”
That Food Didn’t Need To Be A Different Food
“The day after thanksgiving, my wife, my father, and I went out for the day. It started getting around dinner time, and we were about to head back when we passed a BBQ truck. Ribs seemed like a great idea.
My dad called my mom to see what she wanted, but she said no, don’t get ribs, she had been working in the kitchen all day on an amazing feast. So much for ribs.
We got home and found that the amazing all day meal was turkey cheesecake. Stuffing for crust. Gravy and turkey and cream cheese blended together into a slurry and baked into the stuffing crust.
Let me repeat that. Baked turkey slurry.
We could have had ribs.”
Some Things Shouldn’t Be Blended Together
“My father had a friend that had recently gotten engaged to a really nice woman that my father described as ‘The worst cook in the world’.
One afternoon he was invited over to their home for lunch. He went over to see his friend, but when he was offered lunch, which was pork chops and mashed potatoes, he declined and made up that something was wrong with his mouth so he couldn’t eat (I think he said either wisdom teeth or a root canal). The fiancé felt bad that they’d be eating in front of my dad and didn’t want him to be hungry…so she put the pork chops and mashed potatoes into a blender for him.
My dad said he drank it because he didn’t know what else to do, he didn’t want to admit he lied and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He said he nearly vomited with every sip and as of today it’s still been the worst thing he’s ever eaten/drank.”
He Didn’t Want Me To Leave
“My mom was/is seriously the worst cook. The only time I ever ate anything good was when we had weekends with my dad, and he took us to restaurants and let us order whatever we wanted. For a kid, I could eat a metric ton of lobster.
My mom made these disgusting casseroles with fried spam, Velveeta mac and canned peas. Then it was topped off with those Kraft singles slices and crushed up BBQ potato chips. She thought that was the ultimate in cooking. I still feel sick when I think about it.
Sometimes for dinner we would have chipped beef on toast which is a disgusting salty Great Depression kind of food. And if it wasn’t chipped beef it was some kind of soup/tuna mixture over toast.
If it came in a can, we probably ate it. This is probably why I taught myself how to cook. I went back home to visit last year and I cooked dinner every night because I saw my mom pulling out the Spam and Velveeta, and there was no way I was going to let that happen. My dad didn’t want me to leave after the fourth salted caramel apple pie I made.”
I Took The Leftovers To Be Safe
“My mom makes this awful chicken. She either sautées it in a pan, unseasoned (also believes that salt is unhealthy), until white and chewy, or covers the chicken cutlets in breadcrumbs and then STEAMS THEM in foil packets because that’s healthier than cooking with oil. Steamed breadcrumbs are gross.
For Thanksgiving, she stopped trying to cook whole turkeys and started buying white meat only, which honestly wouldn’t be an issue, except she cooks the turkey the day before and then serves it to the family cold. All the sides are also cold and practically unseasoned.
Every year, my sister and I offer to cook a side dish, but she always declines, never taking the hint. Like you, I get ‘full’ really quickly when I eat at her house. I take home leftovers to be nice, and then throw them out when I get home.”
It Was Better Than Liver And Onion
My mom made pork in cider sauce.
The cider in question was cheap-as-dirt White Lightning (the only time we actually bought it, I’d like to point out) and me and my sister hated it.
Us: ‘We don’t want this. Can we have something else?’
Mum: ‘You ate is last time so you must like it. Be quiet and eat it.’
Us: ‘We really don’t like it.’
Mum: ‘Tough. You’ll eat what you are given or go hungry.’
My mum was awesome as we were growing up and, in all fairness, we did eat most of the things that we were eaten anyway as she was a fantastic cook. But this was an abomination beaten only by liver and onions.
She stopped making it when I went to school hungry (I’d gotten up too late to get breakfast) and the school phoned her up to express their concern and make sure there was nothing happening at home.”
I’d Rather Have Wasted Food
“Bologna sandwiches with mayo, on Iron Kids bread.
Doesn’t sound too horrible, right? Except that I ate this same sandwich every Monday through Thursday for lunch, for three years of grade school.
On Fridays, I got a treat- a tomato sandwich with mayo and salt, on Iron Kids bread.
It got to the point I would be faking illness to stay home from school once in a while, just so I could find anything else to eat for lunch.
I only finally stopped getting bologna sandwiches in the fifth grade, when I started to bring my lunch bag home with the sandwich uneaten. I had already been giving it away or throwing it out for months. My mom got outraged that I was wasting the food. Two years of asking for any different kind of meat fell on deaf ears, but less than a month of wasting the sandwich got her attention.
To this day, 23 years later, simply smelling bologna will make me start to dry heave.”
You Really Shouldn’t Add That
“Not me, but my baby half-sister.
My stepmom kept buying off-brand spaghetti-o’s and blended it to the point where it was this horrible concoction. She’d blend in meat, her own ‘mothers milk’ (exactly what you think it is), and a bunch of other things until it’s an unsavory smoothie.
The worst part was the fact that she would refrigerate everything and make more of this disgusting smoothie for her children. And when it came to serving them, she’d leave them out to “thaw” for the entire day before attempting to feed that nasty concoction.
It wasn’t until my sister and I discovered that mold was growing in half of the food she was still trying to feed the baby did my dad put a stop to it. (That, and the fact that my baby half-sister started to get really sick).”
It Felt Like A Chew Toy
“It’s not so much the recipes that failed as it was my mother’s techniques.
A lot of the food my mom made was bland. She didn’t season her food unless it was something she could add Tex Mex to. One of her favorite recipes to make was pork chops. She would put them in a glass baking dish, smother in cream of mushroom soup, and throw it in the oven. So not only was the only flavor the soup, she cooked it until it resembled a rubber chew toy.
She did this with a lot of things. I hated steak until I had a proper one because I could never get past the texture. Chewy and dry.
Chicken was so completely dry. If any juice ran out of any meat she put it back in the oven until no juice came out.
She did the same with burgers, it was like eating hockey pucks.
The only thing she made successfully were sausages. Place in a glass baking dish, throw a bit of water in there, cover with tinfoil and cook for 45 minutes. Take off the tinfoil and cook for 15 more minutes to turn the tops nice and brown. To this day they are the juiciest sausages I have ever eaten.”
She’s Making Me Go Banana’s
“My mom is a good example of a parent who knows their kid has an allergy and ignores it because ‘You’re just being picky!’
I am allergic to, among other things, bananas. This has progressed since my childhood, from ‘bananas make my mouth itchy’ to having trouble breathing if I occupy the same space as a peeled fresh banana.
It also just so happens that my mom’s favorite fruit is bananas. She knows I am allergic to bananas, and that I have (at the time had) an EpiPen because of how severe my allergies are.
Last summer she offered to make me a strawberry smoothie. She used a particular kind of frozen strawberries that I am not allergic to, so I accepted because it was really hot outside. I headed into the living room and chilled out while I listened to her fire up the blender and make the smoothie. When she handed me the glass, I took a tiny sip and immediately I felt my throat close. I didn’t stop breathing, but breathing became very uncomfortable and I couldn’t swallow, so I chugged some liquid allergy medicine and collapsed onto the couch with my EpiPen in hand should things get more serious, and basically wheezed for 30 minutes while I waited for the medicine to work.
Once I could speak properly again, I asked her what she put in the smoothie.
She admitted that she hid a half a banana in the smoothie because she thought that if I didn’t know it was there, then I wouldn’t react to it.
My mother has good intentions, but she really lacks a basic understanding of how things work. When we went to an allergist to get me tested (and 30-something prick test marks on my back became an angry wall of hives), it took the doc a good 15 minutes to explain to her that no, allergies don’t go away on their own; yes, I could be exposed to MICROSCOPIC amounts of food or take shots, but they would take several years to have any effect, and NO, using organic essential oils would not make my allergies go away. Needless to say, she latched onto the ‘microscopic amounts of food’ thing and decided that a 1/2 a large banana was small enough of a dose and that the placebo effect was more of a thing for me than it actually was.
Needless to say, ever since I have watched her like a hawk if she prepared something I was going to eat, and mostly just made all of my own meals.
Some parents just don’t understand how allergies work.”
Dryer Than Sand
“Bless her heart. My mother-in-law, prior to marrying her son, invited us to dinner. My husband had mentioned growing up how he cooked meals for her and made menus, I figured because she was a busy working single mom. Well that was part of it but it was because he couldn’t tolerate her cooking. So here we go…
She made chicken, and green beans. Or at least it started as such. The chicken was dryer than sand. Even the skin was like a bouncy ball. The green beans were grey. GREY. They kind of disintegrated in my mouth. I didn’t comment on the food. On the ride home my husband brought it up and said how hungry he was then I broke silence.
I decided then I would learn to cook, I didn’t want to do that to anyone once I was of age and hosting dinners.”
Nothing Sounds Wrong With “Compost Salad,” Right?
“My mom also makes this thing me and my brother can only refer to as ‘compost salad.’ It starts on a skillet where she scrambles some eggs. Then, she adds three cups of kale and steams it, often times burning the eggs in the process and releasing a vaguely fart-like scent into the atmosphere. Then, things got really weird. She adds an entire can of kidney beans (bean water and all), mashing them into this egg and kale mixture. She then adds cinnamon, nutmeg, curry powder, garlic powder, and salsa and Tabasco sauce.
At this point, the smell is so nauseating it’s nearly impossible to be in the same room as this abomination of a dish. After it’s done being heated into a mush, she puts it on a plate and adds vanilla yogurt on top. Looks like it was fished straight out of the trash.
Needless to say, I refuse to let her make me food. And by the way I really have no idea what’s wrong with her, but something is definitely up if she thinks that this is an acceptable meal.”
I Can’t Get Him To Eat Mine
“Not me but my father. My dad is a former Marine who isn’t picky. He’ll devour just about anything. But for some reason he HATES meatloaf. Absolutely despises it.
My parents went to visit my mother’s aunt and uncle. They are from her biological family that she tracked down after 40 years. So my aunt to welcome them makes this… fermented style of meat loaf that is basically a steaming pile of everything my father refuses to eat. But it’s the first time my mother has met anyone from her biological family. He didn’t want to offend them, So he stomached a piece by eating it as fast as he could…
Cue my mother. ‘Look aunt Carol, he loves your meatloaf. I can never get him to eat mine…’ aunt Carol cuts off another big slab and puts it on his plate. He grins, and eats the second helping…
My mother… is chaotic evil.”
Fake Milk
“We grew up dirt poor, and relied heavily on the area soup kitchens and food pantries. There were five of us kids with a stay-at-home-mom, and my dad was unemployed for a few years, so we rarely could afford basic things like fruit. To keep us healthy, my dad would regularly fill an empty skim milk jug with water and add powdered milk + powdered vitamin tablets (the type with the capsule) and shake it up, then put it in the fridge. We never really knew whether we were drinking actual milk or the vile false milk until we tasted it, since skim milk has the same appearance.
To this day, my dad maintains that doing what he did kept us all healthy as none of us got sick during his unemployment.”