The worst Thanksgiving dish you ever had.

I wrinkled my nose, turning around on the couch.
My cousin frowned. "What's that smell?"
My aunt came around the corner, carrying a casserole dish. The top was covered with tinfoil, but steam still escaped from the crevices.
"I tried something new!" she chirped. "You all have to try it."
Reluctantly, my cousin and I approached the buffet. The offensive casserole sat nestled between the meatloaf and salad, its stink wafting through the living room. As my aunt lifted the tinfoil, I saw it. This mushy, amorphous, gray-green blob, stuffed into a rather unfortunate paisley dish. Wrinkled, once-crisp onions were sprinkled on the top, sticking haphazardly from cracks in the surface of the casserole. When my aunt shoved a serving spoon into the center, it pitifully sank to one side with a sickening squelching sound.
"Dear God," said my cousin. "What is that?"
My aunt grinned. "A new recipe for green bean casserole. Doesn't it look delicious?"
"It looks like dog crap."
Slowly, I spooned a bit of the casserole onto my plate. It plopped from the spoon, sliding along the plastic plate like mud. The mixture of the onions, and whatever the gray stuff was, wafted upwards and I resisted the urge to gag. Holding my breath, I took a bite.
It was slimy, like worms slithering down my throat, and it tasted like someone had melted marshmallows over rotten onions. I almost couldn't swallow it. As it was, I took a swig of juice.
My aunt stared at me with hopeful eyes. "Well? How is it?"
I grimaced. "So good."
"I'm glad you like it! I'll make sure to send some home with you, baby doll."
My cousin conspiratorially whispered, "It'll never end."
Then, with my aunt still grinning up at me, I took another bite.

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