There’s something liberating, almost decadent, about takeout. Smelling the food as you drive or walk it home, the ceremonial unbagging and unboxing, the first bite of food that you didn’t cook that you’re nonetheless eating at home, in your pajamas… every takeout meal is a miniature Christmas morning, a celebration, an event. When you ask someone what they did on Friday and they say, “Oh not much we just ordered takeout,” doesn’t that make you profoundly jealous? Don’t you wish you had done the same thing?
That said, with the price of everything being what it is (gesturing vaguely at the economy and all of society) the last
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