A couple of years back I was at a luncheon that included a man of the cloth. The priest had a healthy sense of humor, and shared an amusing anecdote with us.
"This past summer we had our annual church picnic, and one of our parishioners was assigned sandwich duty. Well, he got up early that day, made the sandwiches, and then put them in the trunk of his car. Well, it ended up in the high 80s that day. When he opened that trunk up around noon, oooh boy, was there one bad smell!"
We all had a nice little chuckle over that. Except for this one older woman, who had something she wanted to contribute to the conversation.
"I have my own bad food story."
"Do you now?"
"Yes. Can I tell it?"
"Why, you go right ahead."
"This woman who lived on my street about 40 years ago went to the store to buy some food. She was hoping to be back before her ten-year old boy got home from school. Well, at the store she saw an old friend who had moved out of town and was now back. They started talking and she lost track of the time. Her boy came home from school, and he was hungry. He looked in the refrigerator and there was just an old rutabega. He ate it, and do you know what happened, Father?"
"I can't imagine."
"The boy died! He died from eating the rutabega! Isn't that terrible?!"
His amusing anecdote having just been topped, the priest quickly changed the subject.