I warned my husband that I was lousy in the kitchen before we got married. He was hopeful and thought that with practice my skills would improve. When he said “I do,” he had no idea that he was committing to a lifetime of rotisserie chicken for dinner.
Sexy lingerie can only go so far. Once the honeymoon period was over, what was left was a meat-and-potatoes man and a takeout menu girl. After years of faking it, I decided that we needed to do something about it.
We signed up for Blue Apron, you know that service that instead of sending meals already made—which is more my speed—sends the ingredients.
I checked Omnivore for our family profile, put the app on my iPhone, and waited. When the first box arrived, I stared at it in wonderment. Should I pick it up? Should I bring it inside? I called my husband at work and interrupted him in a meeting. “Is this an emergency?” he asked.
“Yes! It’s here!”
We carefully opened the insulated triple-sealed goodness and oohed and aahed as we pulled out glossy recipe cards, ingredients including farm fresh eggs, lacinato kale, rainbow chard, celeriac, cornish game hen, catfish fillet, spaghetti alla chitarra and the “Knick Knacks”—a nifty little bag filled with individually wrapped treats by the name of togarashi, gochugaru, coconut palm sugar, peeled chestnuts, yellow curry paste, and chickpea flour. We took inventory of our items and displayed them on the counter like museum pieces.
The preparation of the first meal was divine. Ambiance music playing, wine drinking, laughing, flirting, that move that you see on TV where the husband hugs the wife from behind and snuggles her ear near the kitchen sink—straight out of a Hallmark movie.
We savored the harissa lamb with roasted carrot fries. Impressed with our culinary prowess, we talked about how we were going to travel the globe with our new worldly spice knowledge. Dessert was in the bedroom.
Everybody was happy; there was even humble bragging at a work party about my cooking. “My wife is amazing. It really takes talent to pull off these meals. It’s not just following a recipe. I mean, she really knows what she’s doing!” The boss gave me a wink, which translated into bonus time for the husband. Things were really looking up.
But as you know, all good things must come to an end. The Blue Apron high was starting to wear off, and after two weeks of gourmet meals my husband wasn’t rushing home early anymore and I was left to prepare them alone. The ambiance music stopped. The wine-drinking stopped. The compliments thrown around as foreplay stopped and, by the sixteenth delivery, I deeply regretted checking the Omnivore box.
My knives were too dull to mince the garlic, and I didn’t want to spoon the skin off of any more ginger or zest another fucking orange. I started developing allergies from all the exotic spices. I pretended I was sick during Moroccan week because the curry made my scalp sting. I didn’t want any more coconut-infused potstickers or tamarind-glazed cod. I just wanted a bowl of goddamn cereal. When my husband was traveling, I just tossed full meals, completely unmade. Goodbye jicama and savoy cabbage, hello Dominos!
The garage is overflowing with recycling, all the special dry ice bags and foil wrappers are piling up. My daughter is collecting the little bottles that the stupid sauces come in and I am tripping over them in the playroom. They smell weird. Everywhere I turn there is sambal oelek, ras el hanout, and sherry vinegar reminding me that I need to go prepare a five-star meal. Again.
I dread the blue box at my door. I upped my Xanax prescription to control my panic attacks. The stress of this gourmet ease is putting me over the edge. I’m praying for this nightmare to end so I can have my miserable sexless life back and go to the grocery store and buy a rotisserie chicken.