Dinner is such a hassle

Finding something to eat day in and day out is a right thorn in my side. Like my dad, I find the constant need to feed myself tedious. It gets in my way, and I'm not very good at it. I never really learned the science behind food preparation, so I mostly just wing it. Sometimes things turn out ok, and sometimes (read: often) there are tears. I have been known to eat a bread sandwich for dinner, or to throw leftover french fries in a tortilla, or to toss a Quorn "chicken" burger in the toaster oven and get distracted by the internet until the smoke alarm starts to harass me. See? Bad at feeding myself. Once, circa 2005, I even made this handy info-graphic instead of actually going to the store or getting takeout:



Though that was taken six years ago, it's pretty much what the inside of my fridge looks like all the time. I also hate going grocery shopping. Running out of things gives me anxiety; almost as much anxiety as going to the stupid store and trying to act like the adult I'm supposed to be and buy actual vegetables once in a while. I ran out of fakin' bacon yesterday and didn't buy more. Instead, I treated myself to a breakfast item at the local corporate coffee joint, which burned the bejesus out of my teeth. Fair play to the breakfast wrap, I had it coming.

It's not that I don't like food. I love food - when someone else makes it. Throughout my four years of college, I ate at Planet Fresh at least twice a week, and sometimes twice a day. I'd order a bean and rice tostada with black beans, brown rice, cheese, and guacamole, slathered in the hottest salsa they made. That salsa, by the way, is the most delicious substance on the planet. If I could figure out a way to reliably transport it from Santa Cruz to Portland on a regular basis, I'd be set for life. The bland salsa in the Pacific Northwest (and the equally bland Mexican food in general) can't compare. Why would it try? Oregonians hate spices and driving at proper speeds. It took about three years before my favorite cashier asked me my name and introduced himself, and after that, every time I came in, it was "Hello, Caitlin. Tostada today?" I'd sheepishly nod, partially ashamed of myself for being such a predictable creature of habit, and partially ashamed of my inability to cook. Pictured here is my college meal plan in all its delicious glory. I never ate the tostada shells.



By contrast, when I make my own food, it's the saddest food ever. It's bland, uninspired, hastily thrown together. See this web comic for further explanation. Making my own food, though cheaper, is merely an unsatisfying method of powering through until the next time I can visit a professional food-making establishment. It's a good thing I can write; I'd make a lousy housewife.

On that note, I'm off to have Morningstar Riblets and a strawberry shortcake for dinner. Don't judge me.