Reader be warned: the events that I am about to relate should not be reproduced by any human being with the capacity to taste. Upon reading this article and seeing the images represented herein, lesser persons would turn aside in disgust and dry heave -- violently -- as if to leave a puddle of steaming orange puke on the carpet and/or tile floor next to the wheels of their fancy swiveling computer chairs. Upon ingesting the concoction created in the following experiment, stomach-lining composed of weaker stuff than iron would liquify and bubble up and gush out of the nose and ears of the hungry wight who had the misfortune to dine upon this mutant sandwich. Oh, to think that its genesis was in part motivated by fond remembrance of Strawberry Shortcake!
As longtime readers of the site will remember, the events that preceded the experiment I am about to relate were documented previously on Scary-Crayon. Nevertheless, for the benefit of those who were absent at that time or whose memories are in need of some jogging, I present the following brief summary of those prior happenings. On New Year's Eve, during the final hours of 2005, my festive mood and creative musings upon the return of notable fictional characters from my youth somehow convinced me that a dish consisting of light whipped cream and canned strawberries in between two greasy slices of fried bread might actually make for a delectable dessert treat (which is not to say that believing otherwise would necessarily have stopped me). It didn't -- given the almost tomato-like taste of the canned strawberries and the predictable taste of slices of bread fried in salty grease, the final product tasted more like a BLT or a breakfast sandwich than a sugary-sweet after-dinner treat. As such, after noting the sandwich's resemblance to the most important meal of the day, I jokingly remarked -- ha! ha! -- that perhaps the eldritch concoction would benefit from the addition of eggs.
Except I wasn't really joking. I wish I had been, but readers of the site know well that when I have an idea for an edible (at least in theory) concoction consisting of random ingredients that I just happen to have on hand, I will likely execute that idea regardless of how disgusting the average person might anticipate the outcome to be. So it happened that, just three days after posting that article, I retrieved the remaining canned strawberries from the refrigerator and recreated the experiment: this time with the forewarned addition of an egg. Additionally -- as you see -- a few notable changes accompanied the added ingredient. As opposed to simply following the previous sandwich's design and topping it off with a fried egg, I instead mixed the strawberries into the uncooked egg mixture in order to create a truly unique strawberry-egg dish. In addition, before pouring the mix into the frying pan, I added a teaspoon of flour in order to strengthen the texture of the resultant omelette.
Whether it was the addition of the flour or the strawberries or the unholy combination of the two and their union with the scrambled entrails of an unborn baby bird -- I do not know -- but the... thing... that formed in the heated frying pan was almost too horrible to describe. The yellow of the egg took on a brown-greyish color with slight green tinges, like a horrible creature from the bottom of the sea presented in Technicolor. The smell rising from the frying plan was not unlike the delightful aroma of cooking funnel cakes at the carnival crossed with the nauseatingly sweet scent of overripe cantaloupes: the smells of frying food and rotting fruit. Much like the pleasing Dalek armor masks the horror of the burbling mutant creature within, I made plans to disguise the horror of the CANNED STRAWBERRY OMELETTE in between two slices of toast. And because eggs are commonly paired with cheese, I retrieved an individually-wrapped slice of Kraft American cheese from its plastic sheath and added this to the template of the newly-formed sandwich as well.
At this point, most individuals with any inkling of reason would have ceased their actions and left the mutated omelette to cool on its perch of bread. Even those who had intended to dine upon this monstrosity would now have looked upon it and shuddered in disgust, carrying the plate on which it sat to the closest waste receptacle and, with a tilt, sent it spiraling to its resting place in the confines of a plastic bag. There, in the company of crumpled paper towels and discarded cereal boxes and even the cracked white shell that once housed its now unrecognizable contents, it would have waited until Monday or Thursday morning (whichever day came first), whereupon the bag in which it lay would have been carried to the curb and it would have been spirited away to the nearest landfill. The actual events that followed when the rats sampled the CANNED STRAWBERRY OMELETTE -- oh, too terrible to describe here! -- would have inspired horror films for generations to come.
But this terrible vision of the future will not come to pass. Recall that the original idea for the experiment detailed thus far stemmed from recollections of Strawberry Shortcake and the dessert for which she was named. Despite the already horrific deviations from a project that was itself a perversion of the treat that inspired it, I was moved to complete the experiment by adding a liberal smattering of whipped cream -- and thus the full MONSTROUS CANNED STRAWBERRY OMELETTE WITH CHEESE AND WHIPPED CREAM SANDWICH was born. Following a spell in the microwave to restore heat to the concoction, the newly created sandwich burbled melted whipped cream, quietly daring challengers to penetrate it with unwitting teeth and feel its alien power upon their tongues.
Having myself forged the dreaded dish, I obliged -- and as the reader will now note that over half a year has passed since the encounter, he/she might suppose that the incident so scarred me that I was unable to even speak of it until now. This is only partly true, and I regret to inform the reader that the actual reasons that kept this monstrosity hidden from the world for many months must forever remain secret in order to protect the security of the planet. Still -- admittedly -- the taste of the thing was ghastly. (It was, however, not nearly as overtly offensive as Pup Corn or stale Peanut Butter Toast Crunch -- but what is?) Hardly recognizable as an omelette, it had the weird, tart taste and unpleasant squelching texture that often attends spoiling food: owing to the frothy whipped cream, it was as if the organic matter that comprised the materials decomposed further and oozed warm pus with every successive bite. I might have closed my eyes and envisioned life as a blind maggot, wriggling and eating my way through a hunk of dead armadillo flesh in the hot Florida sun.
The strangest thing about the experiment, however -- and again I must neglect to include certain details for reasons too dangerous to relate in full -- was that the sandwich proved itself to be a sort of anti-food. Far from feeling full after dining upon the mutated meal, I was left absolutely famished. Moreover, I found myself in the grip of sudden and intense cravings that ultimately drove me to create an open-faced sandwich consisting of microwaved frozen onion rings perched atop a slice of bread and slathered with mayonnaise. I cannot speak further about the possibility of an alien parasite gestating in my gut and demanding unconventional nourishment -- banish the suggestion from your mind, I implore you! -- but it is worth noting that pregnant women also find themselves compelled to devour strange food combinations for no apparent reason. And with these words, I conclude this Scary-Crayon Foodstuffs report on the MONSTROUS CANNED STRAWBERRY OMELETTE WITH CHEESE AND WHIPPED CREAM SANDWICH. Recreate this dish at your peril.
