One of my Hermiston Herald co-workers, circa 1999, was Theresa (pronounced THUH-ree-suh), who'd lived in Scotland. Solid, amused, rugby-experienced young person; I thought she was neat. I once described her as "a more regal Janeane Garofalo." (I then decided a Regal Garofalo needed to be the name of a drink. That name's out there if you want to use it.) We had an office potluck. I made some crack to Theresa about, I think, "microwave haggis." Whatever I said, she chuckled knowingly.
And then our fellow writer Joyce asked, loudly, "What's haggis?"
Commence two minutes of trying to convince Joyce that no, you don't want to first learn of haggis while you're a middle-class, conservative-taste American who's eating. It took a bit to try to get Joyce to let it go. Joyce had to be In On The Joke. She hated missing stuff. She'd ask about stuff. Loudly. So you had to explain stuff. No, over-explain. Kill any jokes that may have been involved. I think Theresa and I just gave up talking to her about it.
The opening line of this entry is probably good advice even if in your case it's not about a Joyce.