I admit it: I am breadcrumbing HelloFresh. I buy a box or two. I call it off. They email me. Text me. I leave them on read
But also? I’m still thinking about them.
I click on everything they post. Ah, mangoes this week.
Wait, are they making One-Pan Mango Pork Salsa Tacos with someone else? Who is that in the background? Enlarge, enlarge… have they replaced me?
Is someone else eating their Ancho BBQ Burgers with Bacon? I thought that was our dish.
I definitely didn’t venge-text Blue Apron, “wyd?”
When I do go back (and we both know it’s when, not if), I’m going to insist on that deep discount and free shipping they keep dangling.
Every time I tell them we’re through (we’ve broken up more often than Kelli and Ryan on The Office), they try to be mature and ask: What could we have done better?
I try the “it’s me, not you,” before admitting, “Okay, it’s mostly you.” I only like prescriptive meals for a limited time. By week’s end, I’m freewheeling with the remaining ingredients: cilantro potato soufflé in tortillas?
No?
Speaking of, there’s always too much cilantro. Ditto garlic.
Also? I hate that you don’t put “use by” dates on ground beef.
What if I don’t cook it tonight? Is tomorrow too late? The day after? I need to know!
And no, I don’t want your prepared meals. Jesus. You’re better than that.
That time you forgot my almonds and credited my account instead of sending them out? I didn’t want digital jewelry. I wanted my pumpkin spiced almonds! I’m kinda not over that.
You email me. Text me. Mail me letters. That almost always sends me to your website, and you know it.
You say I’ll be back.
Maybe.
Because I already miss your Fully Loaded Beef Taquitos.
Too bad you gave me the recipe. I can make them by myself without having to use scissors to open every one of the ten tiny packets.
I admit it: the first few days after the box arrives, I can’t keep my hands off it. You promise layered flavors, new techniques. You deliver.
Even with the ever-present sour cream, you still surprise me. That Crispy Chicken Milanese? Well okay…
You’ll keep working me with discounts, thirst-trap photos of butternut ravioli, drizzled with brilliance and a hint of nutmeg.
You’ll catch me on a random late August afternoon and I’ll picture it: just the two of us in the kitchen, that huge recipe card I didn’t ask for but don’t hate, even if it’s a waste of paper.
I’ll cave. My fingers will say what my mind refuses. I’ll accept your free shipping and be deep into debating pasta or chicken before I know it.
And if I don’t get back to you soon enough and you presumptuously send me a fricking box you picked out while I’m on vacation and Word Raccoon gets into it and strews trash across the yard?
No. We’re done.
Hmm… What’s this gift card in the mail?
Not my fingers texting: You up, Babe?
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