Waiter, there's a fly in my potatoes.

We were reheating leftovers this evening (terrible quality ones that are very bad for your health and weight) -- potato wedges and leftover roast chicken from Loblaws.

(Don't judge -- we haven't had time to do a proper shop.)

Anyway, after a quick reheat in the oven, we were dishing out the wedges when suddenly we saw something black nestled amongst some wedges on the tinfoil.

It was a cooked fly.
"Crispy" might be a better word.

I laughed when I saw it.
"Maybe it's the one I saw flying around the kitchen when I packed up the leftovers," I chuckled, without really thinking. "It's been in the fridge all weekend... and now it's been cooked! What a nasty end!"

Chris' face went pale.
"Oh my god," he said, revulsion creeping in. "That's so disgusting. I can't eat that."

At this point, I couldn't stop giggling. There was something so absurd about this fly that had been refrigerated in a container, on to find itself dished out on a tray and broiled to death.

Needless to say, we ordered delivery for dinner.