There are very few things I’m good at: finishing other people’s leftovers, ordering an appetizer so big I’m full by the time the meal arrives, and cooking scrambled eggs, the absolute limit to my culinary skillset. My eggs are the third Destiny’s Child member, wonderful, but ultimately underappreciated .

So when presented with a challenge brought on by BonAppetit.com senior editor, Alex Beggs , who is resolute in making others aware of my inadequacies, I knew it would be a struggle: a dinner party centered around perfectly well-intentioned powdered vegan eggs —which, when cooked, have the consistency of a bowel movement. They would be the main course of the night, the rest was up to me. With my limited cooking expertise and penchant for leopard-themed party decorations, it’s safe to say this party will be much like eating a burrito at Chipotle—a subtle reminder that I can do better.

Jesus, take the wheel, because it’s about to get bumpy.

Party Prep/An Afternoon Spent Febrezing My Apartment

Invited friends, who have no knowledge of my culinary plans, to my dinner. The common response, “Are you cooking?” was followed shortly by “Please provide alcohol.” Somehow, they knew. I headed to Party City, a place where holidays go to die, where Dora the Explorer is a branding expert, and where Bon Appétit -approved party plates are in short supply. I settle on purple leopard print, going for the theme of “ambiguous irony.”

Back home, I unpack the powdered vegan eggs in packaging that reminds me of an Icy-Hot compress in a fake egg carton. The label says “follow your heart” on it and I’m 99% sure my heart is headed toward a bottle of Pepto Bismol. You see that bag of sand? I’m about to serve people that!

Alex Lau

I added two tablespoons of powdered egg to half a cup of water and whisked until I could whisk no longer, approximately 45 seconds, my usual daily cardio . You may not be able to see it that closely, but right now it looks like coagulated clam chowder (see image below). I wouldn’t even eat this if it was a sample at Costco.

After a hefty dose of salt, I cooked the eggs in olive oil for the designated 8–10 minutes per the faux carton’s labeled directions, which gives me enough time to write a novel. It’s bubbling, but mostly watery. Am I boiling this? Is this cooking? Am I Gordon Ramsay yet? Can I yell at people and be paid for it? If this takes any longer and I don’t survive, will you make sure my funeral is red-carpet themed ?

According to the label, the "egg" is made up of algal flour, algal protein, and cellulose among other terms from 11th grade biology, so I’m trying to trust the end result. It’s slowly thickening and looking increasingly gritty, like sizzling vomit. Both my friends are starving and the only thing I can offer them is a bag of stale Stacy’s pita chips I bought in preparation for Hurricane Sandy.

Alex Lau

Party Time/I Have Friends and Pictures to Prove It

My friend, Mallory, is here along with Saahil, who goes by Sam when he’s at Starbucks. I have provided them with generous amounts of wine in my finest wine mugs . With the faint smell of powdered egg yolk in the air, they drink until their mouths are numb. They are only aware that I am cooking, but not what exactly. They can, however, spot the egg mixture from afar, reacting like two people who are getting a bad haircut they can’t stop because they’re too polite.

They know what’s ahead.

The end result, ladies and gentlemen: a totally intentional amuse-bouche.

It's probably three or four rubbery bites, tops. Who needs Weight Watchers when you get portion control like this? This is the leanest of cuisines, and I am Oprah, telling audiences you can eat whatever you want as long as it’s mostly nothing .

Alex Lau

I’m hungry just looking at it.

Mallory and Saahil describe the taste:

“It tastes like cardboard.”

“I’d say Styrofoam.”

“What did you make us?”

I confess: I made them salty baby food.

From what I can gather, it tastes like the absence of food. Like a reminder that you could eat anything, but you are choosing to eat this. I invited my friends over for dinner, and so far, all they’ve had is flavorless egg in a quantity fit for no individual who would like to calorically survive the night. "Egg" is a misleading name, though, with the watery texture and lack of taste, it reminds me of a wet newspaper blowing in the wind, running across any puddle in its way, hoping to find its home in a larger mound of uncollected trash.

When the label stated that a pack could make a dozen eggs, I could only assume a few teaspoons would make a sufficient amount—I was wrong, and hungry as proof of it. Maybe a powdered omelet is my future? Perhaps a powdered egg wedding cake? The options are endless, though my stomach is finite.