I have discovered the miracle of Chinese take-out.
Easter night. We worked all morning, went to a yoga class, and cleaned the house all afternoon. The sun set, and suddenly we were faced with an empty fridge and no plan for dinner–unusual circumstances in these parts.
We looked at each other mischievously. My husband glanced sideways at the take-out menu stuck to the side of the fridge. Before he could change his mind, I dialed, ordered egg drop soup and mu shu pork, and finished dusting. I drove to Peking Palace, Falmouth’s reasonably priced and fairly delicious Chinese restaurant, and waited, embarrassed by my sweatpants, as they replaced the pork egg foo yung they’d mistakenly made with my mu shu.
At home, hungry bliss. Hot soup, steaming mu shu. Easy. Not enough plum sauce, but you can never win. I have (finally) lost my Chinese take-out virginity, and I have a million tiny soy sauce packets to prove it.