will write for food

In my refrigerator is about eight dollars worth of Chinese food (the remains of a forty dollar take-out order), a small Styrofoam container of what by now must be very moldy fruit (except that I'm afraid to look), a pot that contains something that looks as if it might once have been instant risotto, three jars of kosher dill pickles, two jars of mayonnaise, some assorted condiments, one sad little tortilla that could easily qualify as regulation equipment in an Ultimate Frisbee tournament and an open box of Arm & Hammer baking soda. Because an open box of Arm & Hammer baking soda keeps your refrigerator and the contents therein fresh.

Right. I realize that only applies if you've actually been restocking said refrigerator with fresh food from the grocery store. Where do you think the extra jars of pickles came from? But now I can't remember which are the old pickles and which are the new(er) pickles. So I should throw them all away and start from pickle scratch, but I don't. I don't know why, and frankly, I'd rather not discuss it thankyouverymuch.

Truth is I like to cook and I love the grocery store, but cooking for one is an expensive drag and Fred doesn't count as company, because while appreciative, he's not at all discerning. He eats filet mignon and his own vomit with the same degree of relish. (Dogs are SO DISGUSTING. I can't believe I've shared my fork with him.)

So I don't cook. Which doesn't bother me at all. I'm very happy with my typical dinners: be it a small can of whole pitted black olives and a few slices of salami; or a hard-boiled egg with a snack-pack of cottage cheese to tide me over while it cooks; you know, a matzo with butter is never not good; and occasionally, I'll have a can of corn. Creamed or whole kernel sweet, I'm not picky.

My girlfriends, and specifically my married girlfriends, are picky, however. They've begun to show a distinct distain for my diet and have seemingly made it their collective mission in life to see me well-fed. I feel a little like the runt on the prize heifer farm. I really should have gone to law school, as my debating savvy isn't sufficient to let me escape their homes without their definition of a well-balanced meal in my belly and a doggie bag to go. (Instructions enclosed: Not for Fred.) It's almost humiliating, except for the fortunate fact that they're generally great cooks. And the equally fortunate fact that I generally have no pride.

Look, I'm no fool. I'll eat their meals and thank them with profuse and genuine gratitude. I'll even swallow the multi-vitamin with folic acid they so discreetly place beside my plate. Having said this, however, I only have one request of you, my culinarily superior friends -- that you simply, please, coordinate schedules. I'll tell you what. I'll go ahead and post a little sign-up sheet that you can pass amongst yourselves. Just tell me where to be, when to be there and what we're having (so I can bring the appropriate wine). I'm sure that if we all put our heads together, we can make sure that I eat well at least five times a week.