I recently remembered an old game we used to play when the kids were younger. The best way to add an element of surprise and anticipation to any dinner was to order it for pick up. Before they could drive, I’d pay at the drive-thru window, then hand off the bag to the kids.
While I focused on making a left on Guelph Line, they’d rifle through the contents. We didn’t do a lot of this; I was too broke, the food was not good, but sometimes the day had just been hitting me over the head and I needed it to end. Nobody has ever made the “broccoli again?” face while peering into a paper bag from a fast-food joint.
Without fail, by the time we pulled into the driveway, the Phantom of the Takeout Order was warming up. I’d grab serviettes while the boys would start divvying up the food just in time for the production to really begin. “Uh, mom? They forgot your burger.
” “Two of us ordered the same thing.” “I know, but they forgot yours.” I have never been someone who says, “it’s not the money, it’s the principle” because for people who say that it’s almost always about the money.
I am not driving back to a restaurant or a store to fuss over something that will suck even more time from my day or raise my blood pressure. I’m also too lazy to hold up the line and inspect my order, or pull over in the parking lot to do the same thing. That’s on me; people have been screwing up takeout orders since they were invented, but if I’m getting dinner this way, I’m already too exhausted to give it more than minimal attention.
I once watched a person at a grocery store explaining they’d been overcharged 28 cents. Cents. They’d made a trip back over 28 cents.
Were they right? Sure. Were they someone I could be friends with? Nope. My life consists of so many battles I am very, very careful about which ones I choose.
Sometimes you have to put some back. I acknowledge that for some, that 28 cents would keep them up at night. Do what you gotta do.
I worked in retail for more than 10 years. It takes a lot to surprise me. Like most parents, I’ve spent decades eating sandwich crusts, spoonfuls of Kraft Dinner, burned bagels, stale crackers, the hard bit of the cheese, the hairy ends of the asparagus, and anything else that is still food even if my kids thought otherwise.
More than once we have eaten someone else’s pizza order because once it hits my table, it’s what’s for dinner. You may have received our order. Sorry about the jalapenos.
My mom was a fabulous baker. As kids, we’d each get a little plug of pastry. She would make six pies; in that time, we’d overwork that same knob of dough until it was grey and dense.
She’d put a spoonful of jam on it, and bake our jam roll-ups alongside her glorious pies. Dad would eat every one of our offerings. The man had a stomach lined with lead.
Similarly, when people unexpectedly joined us for dinner, mom would quietly eat almost nothing with a sleight of hand that would make David Copperfield proud. It was good training for me to eat a handful of fries and call it a meal. Ari came along on a cottage run recently.
Breakfast was a zip through a drive-thru, something I hadn’t done with him in years. Coffees in cup holders, we pulled onto the highway as Ari sorted through the bag. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he laughed, holding up a single hash-brown.
The Phantom ate mine..
