I'm always a hit bringing irish soda biscuits baked in the form of a Catholic rosary to the local meetings of the Black and Tans Veterans Association.

Seems more like a great way to meet local fat fucks instead of bangable desirables, if you ask me.

I'll pick up the chicks like crazy after I burn them with my chili, I tell you...

The object here is meet people, not poison them.  I'm not saying that I'm a bad cook... But I most certainly will not admit to being a good one either. Incompetence has its rewards.

I usually bring the Lumpia to community events, and when the ladies start asking me how I made them, I tell them the truth: my Mom made these (all I have to do is fry them). Surprisingly, this honest answer intrigues them, and the conversation often gets deeper. I'm not embarrassed. My Mom is a great cook, but her cooking has also provided me with some great opportunities.

And yes, I know how to cook (I like to experiment). But in order to get the best, you must serve the best. In my case, Mom's cooking does the trick. =)