There is a meal delivery service, which shall be nameless, that specializes in vegan food. It starts with a V, ends in an O, and has two Es, a T, and an R in the middle.
I have a vegan daughter and I love veg. My vegan daughter works long hours and doesn’t feel like cooking most of the time. She doesn’t delight in cooking and eating, like some people not a hundred miles away from me right now, as I type. (Me. I’m talking about me.)
ANYWAY, this service requires an order of at least ten meals at a time, so I ordered ten. I figured, if they were good, I could tell my daughter and maybe buy her a bunch of meals for a present.
Sara and I split three (one turned out to be more of an appetizer).
Ermergerd. SO BAD. SO. BAD.
I mean, I cook vegan a lot, and I’ve eaten other people’s vegan meals; there’s no excuse for vegan food to be less than delicious. It’s vegetables, beans, grains, and pasta, for God’s sake!
I told my vegan daughter, and she said, “Don’t throw the rest of the meals away! Try some more, and if you just really don’t like them, give them to me. I’m like Dad: ‘Everything doesn’t have to taste good to eat it.'”
So I tried a couple more, and they were bad. So bad.
Taking her at her word, I gave the rest of the meals to her.
A couple of weeks later, I called her and asked her if she’d had any of them.
“I had two. One of them I ate all of, although I didn’t enjoy it. The other one, the broccoli and the potatoes were all right, but the main dish part was terrible. I just couldn’t eat it.”
She continued, “It was okay, though. I could eat the broccoli and potatoes, and I had the heel of a loaf of bread, so I made a meal off of that. Broccoli, potatoes, and a crust of stale bread, and I was full. It was better than eating that entree.”
Oh. My. God. We laughed until we cried. Sara was here, and she laughed until she cried, too. Then Vegan Daughter said (as we do in the greater Louisville area), “Well, I’d better let you go.” That means, I’m done talking now. She said, “I still have some of those meals left, and I hear the soba noodles calling me.”
And we laughed some more, a laugh we each needed.
You’ve been warned.
My nails this week:
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A WRITING PROMPT FROM ME TO YOU: Write about somebody making a meal out of a crust of stale bread.