“I’m Not Eating at None of Y’all House”
Let me be clear: I’m not eating at none of y’all house. And no, it’s not personal—well, maybe a little. But over time, I’ve seen too much, heard too much, and smelled way too much to just trust a plate from anybody’s kitchen. Y’all might think I’m being dramatic, but let’s talk about it.
First of all, cleanliness is not universal. What one person considers “clean” might look like chaos to someone else. I’ve walked into houses where the pets run the place—literally. Cats on the counters, dogs licking plates, and birds flying freely over uncovered dishes. I love animals just as much as the next person, but if your dog is in the kitchen while you’re cooking, I’m good. If you gotta shoo a cat off the table so we can sit down and eat—nah, I’ll pass.
And let’s not forget the people who don’t wash their hands. Some folks will go from scratching their scalp, playing with the dog, taking out the trash, and right back to stirring the mac and cheese like nothing happened. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And the worst part? They act like you’re rude for not wanting a plate. Like I’m the disrespectful one for not eating your elbow macaroni made with bare hands and vibes.
Also, not everyone can cook. I said what I said. Cooking is a skill—not a birthright. Just because you’re hosting the cookout or Sunday dinner doesn’t mean your food automatically hits. I’ve bitten into dry cornbread, under-seasoned greens, and macaroni that tasted like it was made with skim milk and despair. Life’s too short to eat food that don’t feed your soul.
And then there are the online videos. Social media has ruined potlucks for me forever. Every other day there’s a video of someone making “homemade” potato salad with unwashed hands, a spoon they keep licking, or worse—mixing it in the bathtub. Yes, the actual bathtub. I don’t know if they’re serious or just chasing clout, but I can’t take any chances. Once you’ve seen that kind of thing, it lives in your brain rent-free.
Let’s be real: you never truly know how someone lives until you’re in their home. The roaches don’t always make an appearance at first. But give it time. That one “pop” sound during dinner? Not a firecracker—just the microwave roach announcing itself. Nah, I’ll eat at my own house, where I know what’s clean, how the food was made, and who touched what.
So no offense, but yes—I’m not eating at none of y’all house. I’m bringing my own plate, or better yet, eating before I come. You can call me picky, bougie, whatever. But I call it: having standards.
