Fifteen minutes ago, I was seething in a really unhealthy way and ready to write up a scathing account of forgotten broccoli. But now I’m munching on some pretty decent cheese and slices of pear, so I’ve lost the bulk of the ire that drives all great works of art.
Katie and I have been participating in that yuppie box lunch service called Blue Apron for over a year now. For someone like me who resorts by default to kitchen sink-style meals (think macaroni with some leftover fish, maybe some peanut butter and celery as a side), it’s been a godsend. Each week we pick out 3 meals out of a possible 6 options. I usually steer clear of red meat, so we settle on the fish, chicken and veggie options remaining.
They’ve taught me timing above all else. It’s always been a mystery how restaurants manage to keep food reasonably hot and fresh on a busy night. Now I know that it chiefly involves lots of stress and that old lie humans invented called multitasking. Blue Apron has made me a three-burner chef (send me my damn check now!)
Since we keep separate domiciles, these raw ingredients are often shuttled between kitchens in plastic bags – sometimes with a stop in the work kitchen so I don’t have to run back home before dinner.
Well, something has gone terrifically wrong with my brain as of late and I’m leaving behind ONE INGREDIENT EVERY MEAL. A few nights ago, the verjus blanc. Tonight, broccoli. Tomorrow, my socks?
SCENE: FAMILIAR KITCHEN, KATIE CALLS FROM WITHIN
Katie: Where’s the [goddamn missing food item]?
Adam: … aaaagghgghghghghghghghghHGGHGHGHGHGHGH!!!!!!
EXITS ON ADAM MELTING DOWN, GRABBING KEYS AND GETTING IN CAR
Crying babies don’t really bother me. Neither does waiting in line. But my own failing mind me drives me into such a rage that all stoplights in town turn red forever and I can’t even hear the music on the car radio.
And all this before I realize that the forgotten brocolli is no longer edible due to a fuzz on those delightful florets.