“You should be fostering a culture of ethics, not protecting people’s fragile feelings so they can keep eating their murder burgers in blissful ignorance!”
That’s what she actually said to me. She said it in the company kitchen, right after she’d systematically dismantled our second monthly potluck.
She’d cornered a grandmotherly woman over the ethics of store-bought eggs and lectured a new hire about the secret evils of bouillon cubes. All this, from a woman who never brought a dish. She called it ‘bearing witness’ to our ‘culture of violence’ while waiting for her own twenty-four-dollar salad to be delivered.
She had no idea her whole self-righteous empire was built on a bed of the cheapest corporate lettuce imaginable, and my next catering order was about to expose the entire lie in front of everyone.
The Anatomy of a Casserole
I love the third Thursday of the month. It’s potluck day at Sterling-Price Solutions, a tradition I started a decade ago when I first became office manager. It’s more than just a free lunch; it’s the one time a month the data analysts and the marketing creatives actually talk to each other. It’s where Brenda from Accounting’s legendary seven-layer dip gets its annual moment of glory, and where Dave from Sales proves, once again, that his “secret ingredient” for chili is just an extra can of beer.
This month felt different. We had a new hire in marketing, a twenty-something with a name that sounded like a wind chime: Brianna. She’d been with us for three weeks, gliding through the office with the serene, judgmental aura of a yoga instructor who just caught you eating a Cinnabon. My email announcing the potluck theme—”Comfort Food Classics”—had gone out last week. The sign-up sheet was full of the usual suspects: mac and cheese, fried chicken, potato salad. Comfort.
I was arranging paper plates when she appeared in the doorway of the large conference room we used for our feast. She wasn’t carrying a dish. Instead, she held her phone like a shield, her expression one of pained tolerance, as if she’d stumbled upon a dog-fighting ring. She surveyed the buffet, a long table groaning under the weight of Crock-Pots and casserole dishes. A faint, theatrical sigh escaped her lips.
This, I thought, was not a good sign. The first rule of potluck is you bring a dish. The unspoken second rule is you don’t look at someone’s offering as if it personally offended your ancestors. Brianna was already breaking both.
An Inquisition Over Deviled Eggs
The room filled with the low hum of happy chatter and the clatter of plastic cutlery. People were piling their plates high, laughing and catching up. I saw Brenda beaming as Dave spooned a third helping of her deviled eggs onto his plate. It was working. The magic was happening.
Then I saw Brianna corner Brenda by the water cooler. She wasn’t eating, just observing. Her arms were crossed, and she was leaning in, her voice low but carrying a distinct prosecutorial tone. I edged closer, pretending to need a refill.
“…but are the eggs from cage-free, pasture-raised hens?” Brianna was asking. “Because the battery cage industry is just horrific. The de-beaking alone is a form of torture.”
Brenda, a grandmotherly woman who wore cat-themed sweaters, looked utterly bewildered. Her smile had vanished. “They’re just… from the grocery store, dear. The extra-large ones.”
“Right, but that’s how they get you,” Brianna pressed on, a self-satisfied little smirk playing on her lips. “The consumer is kept intentionally ignorant of the suffering embedded in the supply chain. Every single one of those eggs represents a day of misery for a sentient being.” Brenda’s hand trembled slightly as she set her plate down. She mumbled something about needing to check a spreadsheet and fled. Brianna watched her go, then shook her head with a sigh, as if mourning the moral bankruptcy of the entire accounting department.
The Carnage of Chili-Gate
Her next target was Dave from Sales. He was a big, hearty guy, currently mid-story about his son’s soccer game, a dollop of his famous chili on a cracker halfway to his mouth. Brianna glided over, her eyes fixed on his bowl.
“Is that beef?” she asked, her voice dripping with a kind of clinical pity.
Dave, mouth full, just nodded enthusiastically. He swallowed and said, “The best! Ground chuck. And a secret ingredient.” He winked.
“Chuck,” Brianna repeated slowly, letting the name hang in the air like a death sentence. “So, Chuck was a cow. He probably had a name, a mother he was torn from at birth. He was fattened up in a feedlot, standing in his own filth, before being led down a chute, the smell of blood thick in the air.”
The entire table went silent. Dave’s hand froze. His jovial, ruddy face paled. He stared at his bowl as if he’d just found a finger in it. Someone coughed awkwardly. Brianna, however, looked completely unbothered, as if she were merely discussing the weather. “It’s just something to think about,” she added brightly. “The violence we casually consume.” She then turned and walked away, leaving a crater of silence in her wake. Dave slowly put his cracker down, his appetite apparently gone.
The Lingering Aftertaste
By one-thirty, the party was over. Usually, people lingered, grabbing one last cookie, finishing conversations. Today, the conference room emptied out in record time. Half-eaten plates were dumped in the trash with apologetic haste. Brenda’s seven-layer dip was still mostly full, and a thick skin had formed on Dave’s abandoned chili. The room felt funereal.
I stood there amidst the wreckage of our monthly tradition, the smell of stale food mingling with a new, bitter scent: self-righteousness. Brianna hadn’t brought a dish, hadn’t eaten a bite, but she had single-handedly consumed all the joy in the room. She’d turned a communal meal into a series of individual moral failings.
As I scraped the remains of a perfectly good macaroni and cheese into the garbage, a cold knot of anger formed in my stomach. This wasn’t about veganism. I had no issue with that; we’d had vegans participate before, bringing delicious lentil salads or roasted vegetable platters. This was different. This was a performance, and we were all her unwilling audience. And I, as the organizer, was the de facto stage manager. I had a feeling the next show was going to be even worse.
A Pre-Emptive Strike via Email
A month can feel like a long time, or no time at all. In the weeks leading up to the next potluck, I watched Brianna. She never ate with anyone, instead having a single, expensive-looking salad delivered to her desk each day from a place called “Verdure,” a name that sounded as pricey as it was. She’d eat it with meticulous care while listening to a podcast, a tiny, satisfied smile on her face.
I decided to try a diplomatic approach for the second potluck. The theme was “Global Bites.” Two days before, I sent a carefully worded email to the entire office. “Just a friendly reminder that the potluck is a celebration of community and sharing! It’s a judgment-free zone where we get to enjoy each other’s company and cooking. Let’s focus on the ‘fun’ part of our feast!”
I thought I’d laid it on thick enough. ‘Judgment-free zone.’;I practically underlined it in my head. I even saw a few people, like Dave and Brenda, shoot me grateful looks in the hallway. Maybe it would work. Maybe she’d take the hint, stay at her desk with her fifty-dollar lettuce, and let us eat our enchiladas and Pad Thai in peace. It was a nice thought. Hope, as they say, springs eternal. And is often stupid.
The Fall of the Samosa
The spread for “Global Bites” was incredible. We had samosas from Raj in engineering, a massive pan of lasagna from Maria in HR, and a tagine from Fatima, our new graphic designer. The aromas were dizzying. For a few minutes, I allowed myself to believe my email had worked. Brianna was standing off to the side, quietly observing. She hadn’t brought a dish, of course, but at least she was quiet.
Then, I saw her move. She zeroed in on Kevin, a sweet kid from IT who was twenty-three and still looked perpetually nervous. He was reaching for one of Raj’s vegetable samosas.
“You know,” Brianna said, her voice just loud enough for the people around them to hear. “The dairy industry is arguably even crueler than the meat industry. The cycle of forced impregnation and calf separation is a nightmare.”
Kevin froze, his tongs hovering over the platter. “I… think these are vegan? Raj said there’s no cheese or anything.”
Brianna gave him a sad, weary smile. “But what about the ghee the pastry was likely fried in? Clarified butter. It’s a clever way to rebrand a product of suffering, isn’t it? To make it sound exotic and harmless.” Raj, standing nearby, overheard and looked deeply uncomfortable. Kevin, blushing, put the tongs down and backed away from the table as if it were radioactive. Another one down.
A Lecture on Unseasoned Tofu
It only got worse. She didn’t just criticize; she lectured. When Fatima offered her a plate of vegetable tagine, pointing out that it was entirely plant-based, Brianna inspected it with the scrutiny of a health inspector.
“Did you use honey?” she asked, peering into the pot.
“No, just a little apricot for sweetness,” Fatima said, her bright smile faltering.
“And the vegetable stock? You made sure it wasn’t a brand that tests on animals? P&G, Unilever, Nestlé… they all have shell companies that engage in vivisection. It’s almost impossible to find a truly ethical corporate product.” Brianna delivered this speech while picking up her own lunch from the delivery guy who had just buzzed the front door. It was a Verdure bag, as always.
The irony was so thick I could have choked on it. She stood there, holding her branded, corporate-approved box of righteousness while interrogating Fatima about the secret evils of bouillon cubes. Fatima, who had spent hours cooking a dish from her home country to share with her new colleagues, just nodded mutely and turned away. The light in her eyes had gone out. I felt my hands clench into fists.
The Draining of the Well
That afternoon, the office was a morgue. The potluck leftovers, usually a source of happy snacking for the next day, sat untouched in the breakroom fridge. I saw Brenda, Dave, and a few others huddled together, speaking in whispers. When I walked past, they fell silent. The sense of community I had worked so hard to build was curdling like old milk.
People were afraid. They were afraid of being interrogated, of being judged, of having their simple, kind offering of a shared meal turned into a referendum on their moral character. Brianna had weaponized food. She had taken something meant to bring us together and used it to tear us apart, to elevate herself by making everyone else feel small.
My simmering anger was starting to boil. Diplomacy had failed. My gentle email had been about as effective as a paper umbrella in a hurricane. This wasn’t just about a ruined lunch anymore. This was a toxic presence poisoning our entire office culture. I couldn’t let it stand. I decided then and there that I had to talk to her, directly. It was the professional, responsible thing to do. That was my plan. God, I was naive.
The Rules of Engagement
I spent the next morning rehearsing the conversation in my head. I would be calm, professional, and fair. I wasn’t going to attack her beliefs; I was going to address her behavior and its impact on the team. I’d use “I” statements. I’d focus on workplace harmony. I was an office manager, for crying out loud. Managing difficult personalities was in my job description.
I caught her in the small kitchen area as she was rinsing a single, perfect strawberry under the tap. It was now or never.
“Brianna, do you have a minute?” I asked, keeping my voice level and friendly.
She turned, drying the strawberry with a paper towel as if it were a precious gem. “Sure, Sharon. What’s up?” She had this way of saying my name that made it sound dated and slightly ridiculous, like Ethel or Gladys.
“I wanted to talk to you about the potlucks,” I began, moving into the small space with her. “I appreciate that you have strong ethical convictions about food, and I respect that.” Step one: validate. “However, the way you’ve been expressing those convictions has been making some of your colleagues uncomfortable.” Step two: state the problem.
A Moral Obligation to Be Annoying
She blinked slowly, a perfect mask of confusion on her face. “Uncomfortable? How?”
“Well, by interrogating people about their ingredients, or giving detailed descriptions of animal cruelty while they’re trying to eat. It’s putting a damper on the event. It’s meant to be a positive, team-building activity.”
Brianna let out a small, humorless laugh. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. It was a subtle shift, but her posture became instantly combative. “I’m sorry, are you asking me to be silent in the face of widespread, normalized violence? Is that what this is about?”
“I’m asking you to consider your audience and the setting,” I countered, my own voice getting a little tighter. “It’s a company lunch, not a PETA protest.”
“There’s no ‘setting’ where cruelty becomes acceptable,” she shot back, her voice losing its serene facade and taking on a sharp, condescending edge. “I have a moral obligation to speak out against it. It’s not my fault if people are made uncomfortable by the truth of their choices. Maybe they should;be uncomfortable.”
The Culture of Violence Card
I felt a surge of adrenaline. This was not going the way I’d rehearsed. “Brianna, this isn’t about the ‘truth of their choices.’ This is about basic professional courtesy. You don’t participate, you don’t bring anything to share, yet you feel you have the right to criticize and ruin the experience for everyone else.”
“My participation isn’t bringing a dish of quinoa,” she said, her voice rising. “My participation is bearing witness. I’m trying to raise consciousness in a place that is clearly suffering from a deeply ingrained culture of violence.”
‘A culture of violence?’;I stared at her, dumbfounded. We were an enterprise software solutions company. We sold cloud-based inventory management systems. The most violent thing that happened in our office was when the coffee machine ran out of dark roast.
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