The family had gathered. Unfortunately for me, not my family, but my best friend's family. It was Jenny's birthday, and her mum had called to dinner.

Don't get me wrong. I loved Jenny, and I positively loved her family. Her mum was great, and her food even greater. She was practically a magician. Or so I thought. Until pudding was served. "I found this new recipe from a three-star chef", she announced proudly, while her eldest son handed out the thoughtfully prefilled bowls to every guest. I accepted the ambrosia, some white and red cream that looked delicious. I picked up the kindly provided spoon and was just about to take a healthy bite, when Mrs Swenson carried on, "I made raspberry mascarpone on pumpernickel."

You what? I nearly dropped the spoon. Who in their right minds would take a sweet swoon worthy dream of a cream and poison it with the darkest bread known to mankind? Pumpernickel apparently means something like the devil's fart in old German, and let me tell you, in case you have never sampled this particular culinary joy, it is appropriately named.

Never mind, I thought. At least, some common sense had prevailed during the creation of this creamy miracle. The bread was used as the base. At the bottom. Hallelujah! A slight adjustment of plan will suffice here, I thought to myself.

Very carefully I inserted the small spoon into the sweet temptation. I would simply eat the heavenly cream, then feign a case of massive overeating. "Thank you so much, Mrs Swenson," I would say. "What a delicious dessert. I'm just so full, I can't eat another bite. What a shame!" Simple.

I pulled out the spoon, bringing it to my mouth when, to my horror, I detected blackish brown bits in my otherwise pastel pink and white cream. Not just one or two big bits. No, about two thousand molecule sized bits. The stupid devil's fart had obviously completely disintegrated. "That's not good," flashed through my brain. "But on the other hand, the bits are teeny tiny bits. You will probably not even notice them," I argued with myself.

Slowly, I stuck my tongue into the cream on my spoon. An explosion of taste and texture immediately hit me. And I am not using the word explosion lightly. There was the sweet and smoothness of the cream and the slightly sour taste of the berries. Yummy!!! And the rough and rye-ish feel of the miniscule pumpernickel bullets, which squeezed into every little crevice between my teeth that they could find. I gagged, but managed to conceal it with a small cough. Not good. Definitely not good.

Jenny's little brother jumped up off the chair, ran to the bin and spat his mouthful out. "What is this, mother? It's horrible," he shrieked, while everyone else started to wax lyrical about the perfect blend of tastes the creamy dessert offered. "I want to be you", my Freudian id cried. I had never wanted to be the little git in my life, but right then and there ...

I sighed as quietly as I could and stared at the concoction on my spoon as if it was my enemy. And in a way it was.

"Well, there is nothing for it. Get it down your neck," my superego egged my ego on. My stomach was having none of it though. Before the toxic mass even touched my lips, my oesophagus closed down. Embarrassingly, along with my eyes. "Pull yourself together, for crying out loud, girl," I admonished myself and rammed the spoon into my mouth, completely disregarding the protest of my inner organs. My cheeks bloated and I looked like a hamster on account of the fact that the spoonful of sugar with black bits wouldn't go down.

Slowly, helplessly, I peeled my eyes open. Everyone was staring at me. Jesus. Mrs Swenson grabbed my hand. "Go and spit it out, love. I just had a mouthful myself. It's the worst thing I have ever eaten. Absolutely awful. Rotten three-star chefs." She looked at all the other guests with a grin. "And you ... you little liars. Forget about fancy desserts and posh cutlery. I'm getting the Ben and Jerry's."