Dad always insisted that we eat some so as not to hurt Gramma's feelings. He apparently wasn't too concerned about her feelings himself, though, because he'd never so much as touch the stuff. Smart guy. It tasted rather like it smelled: absolutely vile. I don't know what all she put in it, but there was Spam (yep, good ol' Spam), green beans, carrots, celery, Brussels sprouts, some kind of greens, corn, and lard. Really. Gramma loved cooking with lard. I swear she made coffee with it. This gave the soup a greasy scum that congealed when it got cold.
Some of our relatives we just loved to visit. Dad's mother was not one of them. She was huge. Not tall, but enormously corpulent. By her smell we guessed that she seldom bathed, and by her smell we knew that she was frequently flatulent. Knowing what she ate helped explain some of the odorific anal emissions, but most foods cannot generate a smell like that. She was certainly Shameless when it came to breaking wind.
We had gone to Gramma's for dinner one evening, an event rather like being sent to the Russian Front. We entered her trailer and were assailed by the scent of sweat, farts, and -- horrors! -- shit soup. I tried everything I could think of; but, alas, it was all in vain. When mealtime arrived I found myself seated behind the table with Gramma ladling my bowl full of this putrescent swill. I shot a silent plea for deliverance to my dad, but received only the shut-up-and-eat-the-goddam-stuff look.
With the resignation of a man who is ascending the gallows as guest of honor at a necktie party, I grasped my spoon. At least the poor bastard on the gallows would die; I'd probably live with that awful taste in my mouth for hours.
Slowly I brought the spoon to my mouth as the smell brought tears to my eyes. I opened my mouth in grim determination. Time slowed to a standstill. I recall the ominous, relentless ticking of the cheap-assed clock on the wall behind me. A fly buzzed over the table (and probably decided that the pile of dogshit on the lawn smelled better). Gramma farted. Again. Steeling myself for the inevitable, I dumped the spoon into my mouth.
The horrid taste of overcooked carrion, lard, and past-ripe vegetation filled me with a sickening sense of loathing. I tried to swallow. My throat, unwilling to subject my stomach to the assault my mouth had endured, closed up tighter than a bull's butt in fly season. I retched. I gagged. Gramma farted. Again. Finally the liquid essence of evil trickled down into my gut. This scene was repeated over and over until the horror had been consumed.
"Want some more?" Gramma asked. Hell no, I think I'd rather eat ground glass. "No thanks, Gramma," I politely wheezed.
On the way home, Dad talked about such mundane stuff as the war in Vietnam, a local double murder, and other fanciful shit; but deep in my digestive tract, the poisonous concoction worked its baleful spell upon my young intestines. The Spanish Inquisition had nothing that could rival the torments I was silently enduring. My brother was also uncharacteristically subdued. "I need to scrape that shit off the roof of my mouth," he gagged. Some two hours later I found myself in bed with Mount Vesuvius roiling and bubbling just beneath the surface. Mercifully I lapsed into a fitful slumber.
Then, shortly after midnight, it happened. My dad always said I was so damned stupid I didn't know whether my ass was punched or drilled, but right then I knew: it was burned through from the inside. With acid. I bolted from the bed to the crapper. Whilst I knew that what I was about to do to the poor toilet was cruel and unconscionable, I had no other choice. As my ass headed at warp nine toward the seat, the churning contents of my anal vault made an abrupt withdrawal. Shit sprayed everywhere.
The story does have a happy ending, though. Mom put two and two together and told Dad, "Next time your mother gives that shit to these kids, you're cleaning up the mess!" I haven't had any of Gramma's soup since. And, unfortunately, the recipe went with her to the grave. Boo-hoo.