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May 15th 2008

Him & Her:
Food Fights and Take Outs
by Nancy and Dan Sapir

HIM: It seems the older we get the more take-out we do. Maybe we just hate to mess up the kitchen with food preparation and don’t look forward to the cleanup. Maybe we just don’t like to take the time it requires to cook all those meals. It’s just so much easier to pick up the phone, place an order and pick it up 20 minutes later…no muss, no fuss.

The problem is, a lot of the stuff is just not healthy, and it’s expensive. But it is fun. She will call me at the office and begin with, “Have you thought about dinner?” That’s usually the first indicator that she’s fishing for take-out. We agree that we will each think about it and touch base later. Naturally, she knows that I always work late, so by the time we check back with one another she says, “You really don’t expect me to be cooking a meal at this hour.” That clinches it, it’s take-out time. The other day she was finishing her last piece of pizza and made me promise that I would never again bring home take-out. “Even if I beg you, promise me you will ignore me. No more take-out.” Naturally I agreed knowing it wouldn’t last long.

Another favorite game she plays is when I do come home with ground beef or hot dogs or something fast like that, she says it’s too late to start. “I spoke with you over an hour ago, where have you been? Who did you end up talking to at the store? It’s too late to cook now, I’ll freeze this for another day.” That one always makes me laugh. It seems everything we have is frozen which means it’s never really handy. If I do come home early she says, “I never expected you at this hour. When are you ever home early? I never had a chance to defrost anything. How about Chinese?”

I get a kick out of her specific orders. If it’s Chinese I always have to get extra mustard and duck sauce. “Remember to remind Mrs. Lee, it’s not the same without lots of sauce.” With pizza, it’s got to be “A little on the well done side.” When it comes to Mexican we can’t forget “Gobs of Guacamole.” Fish is not enjoyable for her unless it comes with a pint of tartar sauce. With any of our take-out orders, it generally involves going to another store or two for the accoutrements. “If you’re at Mamma Mia’s go across the street top Rick’s and get Coke”, “If you get an order at Tucson Taco, run down to Stop & Shop for snacks, especially those Eskimo Pies, they now come in cappuccino, and you might consider some of the butter cookies, but not the small ones with that tough chewy fruit center, but the big oval ones, either vanilla or the chocolate and if they re-stocked on Philly Swirls get a box. When I come home with everything she ever mentioned, one of two things happen. Either she expresses disappointment that I didn’t think to pick up a box of Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews (“You know I crave them”), or she yells at me for listening to her. “None of these things are healthy. Why would you spend that kind of money for stuff that can put you in an early grave. We’ve got to stop doing this to ourselves.”

Her eating goes in phases. She is on a coleslaw kick now. “Any time you are by Bongi’s, pick up some of their coleslaw. But it has to be Bongi’s.” She is also bowled over by buffalo wings from the Charlie Horse: They have to be the boneless but don’t get the hot, hot sauce, ask for something a little hot but nothing that will knock you over…but not really mild either.” Other highlights of her take-out pleasures are the Super Steak from Papa Gino’s, Jack Daniels sesame chicken from Friday’s, Oriental Salad from Applebee’s, Crab Rangoon from Royal Garden, and just about anything but a Gordito from Taco Bell. As for me, just give me a pound of in-store turkey from Victory or store-made meat loaf from Stop & Shop and I’m a happy eater. She should be grateful that I’m so easily pleased.

She bought me a Showtime Rotisserie for Father’s Day. It’s supposed to be a means to cut down on take-out and eat healthier. I called her a few minutes ago and asked what I could bring home for us to make on the contraption. All you have to do is set it and forget it, it couldn’t be any easier, right? “If you think I’m going to swelter in this heat by cooking with that machine, you’re crazy…I was kind of thinking, they’ve introduced a new burger at…

HER: It was so much easier when the kids lived at home. I’d go through 15 pounds of potatoes a week, and a pot of soup meant 16 quarts. That was a cinch. Cooking for him alone is not so simple. Food is never “fast food” when meeting his exact specifications.

For example, I call him and ask, “How about hot dogs tonight?” “Sure,” he says, but his idea of hot dogs is with finely minced onion, chili without beans, and some nice potato salad on the side. This requires as many pots as if I were feeding the whole family. I’d rather buy chili dogs that are loaded with salt and watch my ankles swell up.

Two weeks ago he wanted eggplant parmesan. Fine. I made it, and then I ate the leftovers for four days because he doesn’t like leftovers. If we had just called Paisano’s, I wouldn’t be hating eggplant right now.

We’re getting older, and if you listen to all the medical advice, we shouldn’t be eating anything but raw vegetables and rice, but food is one of those quality of life issues. A person needs tasty food to feel alive even if you die from it.

I can’t believe people are trying to sue fast food companies because they’re overweight. I say “thank you”, Mc Donald’s, Papa Gino’s, Quizno’s, Burger King, and all the other purveyors of fat for keeping me out of the kitchen. That makes me happy, which in turn, reduces my stress, and as we all know, stress can make you sick. So in a very strange way, fast food places keep me healthier than I would be if I had to make all his meals.

One solution would be to practice Catholicism better and fast two days a week on bread and water, but he’d never go for that. He’d hang on to that word “bread” and extend its meaning to include spinach and cheese stuffed bread, bread pudding, and croissants, and then he’d get carbonated fruit flavored water, but what the heck, it’s a beginning.

by Nancy and Dan Sapir