Last night I wanted takeout for dinner, but I didn’t get takeout. I showed discipline. Instead, I had tomato soup from a box, and a bunch of stuff ensconced in bread. It took what felt like ages to make, and then just as I was about to start eating, a big centipede ran by and basically ruined the meal. If I had gotten takeout, I would have finished eating before the centipede came.
Other things I have eaten instead of takeout include cereal with bocconcini, the cheesy bits of a stale loaf of cheese bread, and a tube of saltines. I know that slob dining is a cheap joke, but I’m just telling you the truth.
I have tried before to actually cook, but it didn’t take. I find no grace in the cooking process. I see it as a lot of work for a subpar dinner. The dinner is paid for in time and in hard-earned dollars to the flake merchants at the organic market. Why should I pay to eat my own cooking?
Sometimes I play this up because it makes me feel like a modern woman. It’s nice to take a step back and feel what you are, because most of the time being what you are is not that exciting. I work all day, then I come home and do more work. When I’m not working, I’m out with friends, or I’m literally staring into space trying to delay having to work more.
There’s not a whole lot of time in between for perfecting my quiche. Even if I tried, it would only yield a burned-up face made out of perfectly scrambleable eggs. And then all week I would have to come home from a hard day’s work and eat it.
Life is pretty great, but there are days when all you have to look forward to is a good dinner. It’s not like I’m coming home to a hilarious boyfriend who rules at fucking. I’m not even coming home to pot and Adult Swim. I’m coming home to an apartment full of centipedes, plus a pile of work I want to get done before I pass out fully clothed with the lights on.
The sandwich is a handy foodstuff, but it’s nothing to come home to. And that’s what takeout is all about. Something to come home to.