I consider myself a martyr. The question arises why do I think so? I am, because for the last so many years I am putting up with a dish which my Afghan neighbors make, and send to me. I hate it, and sadly I don’t have the courage to tell them. Every time it comes, I eat a spoon, or so, and the rest I consign to the garbage.
I feel guilty in the sense that they wasted hours on it, and I don’t like it. I wish they didn’t make me eat it. The dish does have a strange name, and I have been totally unable to grasp it. Every time they pronounce the name, in reply I ask, “eh?”.
They repeat it. Again another “eh?” I gave up trying to get its’ name.
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.