"My LItte Guinea Pig"

I can't imagine how often those words are spoken in other people's homes, but in mine, it's probably twice as much.
My father is in the wrong line of work - we all agree he should have been a chef. I imagine he'd be like a Gordon Ramsey, without the assault charge. He also probably wouldn't yell as much, but he'd say the same things... without the accent.
When you hear the words "Guinea Pig" in my house, my family is usually taste testing something my father concocted. 9 out of 10 times it's really good. In my 22 years of life I have only tasted one bad thing he's made, and that's only because I don't like raspberries.
Many times, when I'm being called a guinea pig by my father, I'm usually taken by surprise. Like now, I just went downstairs to get a glass of water, when my father enters the kitchen says "Ah, my little guinea pig" and makes a bowl of food for me - inside the bowl he put a little basket of baked Parmesan cheese, flaky and golden brown. Inside he put a lettuce mixture - you know, the green and red lettuces that come in a bag? and then he topped it off with two spoonfuls of a shrimp salad - the shrimp are tiny and covered in a mayonnaise sauce, with red onions and little tomato bits. I don't know what else he added to it. I imagine some horseradish, since there's a bit of a kick at the end. Then a little lemon was squirted onto it. It /is/ a little mayonnaisey, like my mother said. But it's still really good. The textures play on your tongue, and the taste just fills your mouth.
It's really good.
If this were served on a square plate, with a fancy fork, on a candlelit bale, it'd be worth like 10 bucks.