America stared at his bowl of soup.
To most people, the soup wouldn't have been anything remarkable, being the typical mixture of pasta, corn, lamb and Worchestershire sauce, but America knew better.
England had made it.
It was edible.
"What's the matter, mon ami?" France asked, noticing America's slack-jawed staring.
"This soup... It's edible..."
France looked at him in disbelief, then slowly tasted a spoonful.
"Mon dieu... It is... Quick! Get on the phone! Call the Vatican!"
England walked in. "What on Earth is all this shouting-"
"Beware not, England! We will free you from the grasps of the demon that is posessing you!"
England stood there in silence for a while. "...And how did you think of that...?"
"I tasted the soup you made and didn't puke!"
"And how the bloody hell does 'cooked something edible' equal 'posessed by demon'?"
"Well", America butted in, "What else could it be?"
"Luck?" England suggested, before sauntering back to the kitchen. He then paused, thought for a moment, and yelled, "FRANCE, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE UNINVITED YOU BLOODY GIT!" before coming back rather angry, frying pan in hand. France had run off at Mach 6.