It seemed like a good idea. If you can’t go on vacation, let the vacation come to you — seven days of no-cooking bliss, just order-in dinner! A week freed from menu-planning, grocery shopping, cooking, and kitchen clean-up. Short of a cure for COVID-19, it’s my idea of earthly delight.
AND as an added bonus: a week of order-in meals means a week of yummy ready-made lunches since take-out food is always way too much to eat at one sitting. So, happy plan indeed!
What could go wrong? Don’t ask.OK. Ask.
The answer: Minor, almost major, marital mayhem.
Day One: The No-Cooking Kick-Off
Even though it wasn’t part of the plan, we already have a monthly brunch ritual. We order bagels and lox and gorge ourselves. Deli delish! We ate so much we couldn’t even think about dinner.
So, Day One was a breeze. No restaurants to choose between. No complicated computerized options to select. And no delivery systems to navigate or fret about.
Day Two: Perfect Ordering Harmony
We were jonesing for Mexican food and quickly agreed on tacos, tamales, and taquitos.
Handsome Hubby researched the best Mexican restaurants within our delivery zone with the devotion and skill normally reserved for his most important legal briefs. After 45 minutes, he solemnly announced his restaurant pick.
Next, we studied the take-out menu with all the due diligence required. Then, we carefully made our selections and ordered them.
Our meal arrived on time, hot, smelling delicious, and tasting even better. And even though we stuffed ourselves, we had leftovers for lunch the next day.
Our no-cooking vacation was going great. ¡Olé!
Day Three: Aegean Sea
Smooth sailing continued on the third day. We were still seeing eye to eye on restaurant picks, quickly agreeing on Mediterranean food from our favorite Greek restaurant — a gyro platter for me, a falafel wrap for HH, and baklava for two, if you please! Óra!
Day Four: HH Pushes His Luck
“Ethiopian?” he suggested.
“Gee, not tonight, sweetie,” I said — which, after 33 years of marriage plus five years of dating, is wife code for “Hell no” — OBVIOUS — obvious to any woman that is!
“Oh. Ok. Italian?” HH queried.
“Sure,” I sweetly replied, wondering why he had to ask. I’m always down for Italian. Second to bagels and lox, what else is better?
As an aside: This ordering-in plan was especially glorious for me because, HH is vegan while I’m a card-carrying carnivore. I try to be respectful of his righteous plant-and-planet-loving ways when I cook especially during these close quarters shelter-in-place days. BUT when we get delivery, I figure what HH can’t smell cooking doesn’t “technically” count as disrespecting his healthy eating choices. So, I’ve been ordering beefy delights with abandon all week long!
Tonight’s pick — spaghetti with meatballs and as far as I was concerned, forget the “spaghett.” Go heavy on the meatballs!
Day 5: No-Cook Stormy Seas
“So, since you’re anti-Moroccan, how about Thai?”
“Huh? Who’s anti-Moroccan? I’d love to try Moroccan food!” I enthused.
“What? You didn’t want Moroccan last night,” HH huffed.
“You said ETHIOPIAN. Not Moroccan. You know how much I want to go to Morocco. I’d LOVE to try Moroccan food.”
“I don’t know of any Moroccan restaurants,” he said with a sniff and a sulk. “And since I ordered Italian for you last night, it’s my turn tonight. I want Ethiopian food and I’m ordering Ethiopian food. Besides, I’m the one doing all the work ordering all this food.”
I considered picking a fight over the “I’m doing all the work” line but didn’t. I contemplated pointing out that I do the lion’s share of ordering groceries, planning meals, and cooking dinners AND that the weeklong, no-cooking arrangement was to give ME a break from dealing with “all the work.” But I didn’t. Because I’m a superior person. An adult. I just stomped out of the room and pouted.
Then our Ethiopian food arrived. It was good. I had forgotten how much I actually like injera, the spongey pancake-y bread, upon which an array of foods, including curries, spicy stews, meats, and vegetables, are placed.
Day Six: Salad is Our Salvation
I wanted Chinese. He thinks Chinese is bland.
He wanted Thai. I think Thai is too spicy.
“Mexican?” I suggested.
“We had Mexican the other night,” HH reminded me — none too nicely.
“Pizza?”
“No.”
“Peruvian?”
“Now you’re just naming foods and countries that begin with the letter P,” HH accused me.
“Pshaw,” I replied.
To avoid continued menu — and marital — bickering, we decided to keep it simple and green. We ordered salads. Aside from the crunch of lettuce, peace and quiet reigned supreme.
Day Seven: The Deliveryman Rested
We cracked. We couldn’t handle the restaurant-picking pressure. Didn’t think the marriage could stand the test. Six-months of sheltering in place together is enough of a challenge. Sharing the TV remote control is another. But having to agree on the same order-in restaurant seven nights in a row was a burden too great.
So, technically, even though one day remained on our no-cooking vacation, I cooked. It couldn’t be helped! It was the only recipe that could save our marriage!