When I was in high school, I only lived a few blocks from the school, and I had a whole hour for lunch, so I would often come home and eat lunch with my dad.  He would always have something ready for me to eat, such as a sandwich and soup or reheated leftovers from dinner the previous night.  One day I came home to a very peculiar smell.  “What IS that?” I grimaced.  “It’s fine.  Just eat it.  I took all the leftover dabs of food from the refrigerator and combined it all in one pot.  I’m calling it ‘Vietnam Hash’.”  It actually didn’t taste as bad as it smelled, but I didn’t take a second helping.  And after lunch, we both went our separate ways, he, back to work, and me, back to school.  By sixth period, I wasn’t feeling very well at all.  I made it to the end of the school day, and I was able to make the walk back home, but by the time I got the kitchen door open, I had to make a mad dash for the bathroom.  I could hear the phone ringing while I was violently occupied, emptying my stomach and my intestines simultaneously.  When I was finally able to limp out of the bathroom to catch the persistent phone, I heard a very weak voice on the line saying, “Are you sick?”  I told Daddy I was very sick.  He just said, “Me, too. That Vietnam Hash is a killer!”  Obviously, there was something in the fridge that had stayed there too long, but as Daddy had quickly dumped all the containers together, no one particular item alarmed him.  For a long time after that nasty episode, it would always make us laugh to say, “Not Vietman Hash!” when asked what we wanted for dinner.