“Sure, honey,” Dad concedes, defeated.

I don’t even want to know where she gets her information. And from the various expressions around the table ranging from disgust to despair, it seems my fellow diners are of the same mind.

When the introductory speech is over, Julia finally presents the first course: pumpkin soup with chia seeds.

Pumpkin soup doesn’t sound that bad; I love soup. As Julia sets the bowl before me, I’m even encouraged by the color: a deep, rich orange. And the smallish brown seeds she’s used as a garnish don’t seem too scary. I’m actually kind of enthusiastic as I grab my spoon to have a taste.

When everyone is served, Julia claps her hands. “Tuck in, everyone.”

I take a large spoonful, and wince. “Julia,” I protest. “The soup is cold.”

“It’s not cold, it’s lukewarm,” she says, her tone of voice implying I just said something really stupid.

“Well, I prefer my soup hot,” I say, getting up. “I’ll microwave it real quick. Does anyone else want me to microwave theirs—”

“You can’t microwave it!” Julia shouts. I freeze in place as she explains, “First of all, microwaves are really toxic.” She turns toward Mom. “You should get rid of that death trap.” Her focus shifts back to me. “And second, you can’t warm the pumpkin. Keep it at two hundred degrees for even a minute and you lose half of all the thermolabile vitamins.”

“I think I can live with fewer vitamins if it means I can eat hot soup.”

“Suit yourself, but that’s not how it’s supposed to be eaten. You might as well go out and order a burger.”

That actually sounds like a great idea.

“Why don’t you give Julia’s cooking a try,” my mom intervenes. “She’s put so much effort into preparing this lovely dinner for all of us.” She gives me a long, now-be-good-and-eat-your-disgusting-cold-soup stare.

I sit back down, resigned, and do my best to force a few more spoonfuls of this cold poultice down my throat. Cold soup in December! This is a madhouse.

Unfortunately, the main course—tofu steak—doesn’t prove any tastier or more filling. The only saving grace is the salad side. Not really much you can do wrong with a salad, even if Dad isn’t allowed to use his favorite ranch dressing as it has dairy in it, which is supposedly even worse than meat. Cow Milk & Co are guilty of containing lactose—we don’t possess the enzymes to digest it—as well as casein, a dreadful animal protein capable of causing cancer, respiratory problems, inflammation, bloating, headaches…

Makes me wonder if at the agency we should put side-effect warnings at the end of our food commercials like we do with pharmaceuticals.

As for me, I’m happy I’m allowed to use olive oil to dress the salad, even if the salt gets rationed down—it’s bad for blood pressure.

The cherry on the cake of the most horrible dinner ever is the dessert: an oatmeal pudding made with maca root powder, so dense it has the consistency of glue. Of course, not a pinch of sugar in it.