Pot-Luck

The phone rang twice. "I am calling because I have saved you," the phone said.
"We are going out to eat?" I said. I looked at my watch and saw it was dangerously close to twelve.
"NO, I have cookies to give you so you do not have to show up empty handed," it said.
"Fabulous," I said, and frowned into the phone.

Standing at the end of the fourty minute line, I peer towards the table. At that distance, I am not quite able to make any of the food out, but I imagine it must resemble a pig trough.
Coming closer to the table, the food was really not much more recognizable. It was all likely something with "casserole" tagged onto the end of it. Corn casserole, green been casserole, meat casserole, stuff left in the fridge casserole, you get the idea.
Really, I thought, it should all be called mush, instead. I was not optimistic towards eating any of it.
"Mmmmm, doesn't this look good?" she said.
"No," I said.

If I had my way, I would rename the occasion; call it, Pot-unluck. Except that unluck is not a word. Which is probably why they decided to call it luck, instead.
"It's all just about good advertisement," I say.
"Oh, corn-beef casserole!" she says.