To open one’s fridge and find a stack of quality pre-made edibles in those black plastic containers, or better, the crimped foil somethin’s-gonna-get-bubbly-in-the-oven things with the peek-a-boo lids? Bliss. SO much better than having children.
I began my day yesterday with an undeserved reward. I rescheduled my annual gyno exam. I’m diligent about going every year, but it usually takes me two or three attempts to actually go through with an appointment, so canceling yesterday’s was no surprise. But since I couldn’t come up with even a pretend reason to justify it, guilt sent me into Reprieve Mode. You know Reprieve Mode. When you reschedule A in order to do B, then you think, I reeeeally should get off my ass and actually do B now.
Yesterday I really got off my ass and did B. Did freakin’ half the alphabet, in fact.
So when I got home to find an assortment of heat-n-eat containers stacked in my refrigerator like the welcoming crew at a whorehouse, I wanted to do the happy dance. But I was too tired to do the happy dance. Which is where the pre-mades come in.
I’ve fawned about them before, and I’m gonna sound like an ad here, but this is where FreshDirect really has it goin’ on. Last night I enjoyed perfectly pink pan-seared coriander and peppercorn crusted tuna (second time in a week) with a gingery soy dipping sauce that’s not at all shy, aromatic cucumber and seaweed salad, buttery hot brioche with the mouthfeel of chewing angels’ wings, and a warm-from-the-oven chocolate soufflé, waiting to be poked so it could swallow up a slippery dollop of whipped cream. All made in an industrial kitchen in Long Island City, clicked on by me, then delivered to my fridge by not-as-giddy-as-the-ones-in-the-commercials-but-still-plenty-pleasant delivery dudes.
Their reasonable grocery prices and clickety convenience remain the primary selling points, but in the several years since FreshDirect’s launch, I’ve also enjoyed their various and sundry quiches (the wild mushroom and goat cheese is downright godly), a farmy-tasting French cassoulet, steamed whole wild lobster, countless par-baked almond croissants, a fondue or two, rock crab claws with mustard sauce, bleu cheese and cranberry empanadas that made me wanna move to a bog, gazpacho, jambalaya, some damn respectable meatballs, fiery red Texas chili attributed to a gentleman called Mean Mike, assorted sauces, spreads, hors douvres, and deli salads, some not-as-good-as-mine-but-still creamed spinach, numerous shrimp cocktails and seafood salads, some tasty Moroccan meatwad things, potato gratin with rosemary and garlic, a reassuringly rustic chicken cacciatore with Yukon Gold potato gnocchi, green curry chicken with Thai basil and rice noodles (mmmkay, this one was a dud), a wonderfully scallopy Coquille St. Jacques, some wish-they-weren’t-so-good bleu cheese burgers, a delightfully decadent Shrimp Romesco with Paella Risotto & Chorizto (an FD exclusive made by Chef Terrance Brennan of Picholine and Artisanal), a tastytasty toasted almond frangipane tart, a dark chocolate pudding I wanted to bathe in, about a bazillion Asian salads with grilled chicken and Mandarin orange, and several surprisingly life-affirming stuffed cannelloni in red sauce dinners. With the exception of maybe one or two of those things, everything fell somewhere between mighty good and full-out fabulous. All were tablecloth worthy.
I began my day yesterday with an undeserved reward. I rescheduled my annual gyno exam. I’m diligent about going every year, but it usually takes me two or three attempts to actually go through with an appointment, so canceling yesterday’s was no surprise. But since I couldn’t come up with even a pretend reason to justify it, guilt sent me into Reprieve Mode. You know Reprieve Mode. When you reschedule A in order to do B, then you think, I reeeeally should get off my ass and actually do B now.
Yesterday I really got off my ass and did B. Did freakin’ half the alphabet, in fact.
So when I got home to find an assortment of heat-n-eat containers stacked in my refrigerator like the welcoming crew at a whorehouse, I wanted to do the happy dance. But I was too tired to do the happy dance. Which is where the pre-mades come in.
I’ve fawned about them before, and I’m gonna sound like an ad here, but this is where FreshDirect really has it goin’ on. Last night I enjoyed perfectly pink pan-seared coriander and peppercorn crusted tuna (second time in a week) with a gingery soy dipping sauce that’s not at all shy, aromatic cucumber and seaweed salad, buttery hot brioche with the mouthfeel of chewing angels’ wings, and a warm-from-the-oven chocolate soufflé, waiting to be poked so it could swallow up a slippery dollop of whipped cream. All made in an industrial kitchen in Long Island City, clicked on by me, then delivered to my fridge by not-as-giddy-as-the-ones-in-the-commercials-but-still-plenty-pleasant delivery dudes.
Their reasonable grocery prices and clickety convenience remain the primary selling points, but in the several years since FreshDirect’s launch, I’ve also enjoyed their various and sundry quiches (the wild mushroom and goat cheese is downright godly), a farmy-tasting French cassoulet, steamed whole wild lobster, countless par-baked almond croissants, a fondue or two, rock crab claws with mustard sauce, bleu cheese and cranberry empanadas that made me wanna move to a bog, gazpacho, jambalaya, some damn respectable meatballs, fiery red Texas chili attributed to a gentleman called Mean Mike, assorted sauces, spreads, hors douvres, and deli salads, some not-as-good-as-mine-but-still creamed spinach, numerous shrimp cocktails and seafood salads, some tasty Moroccan meatwad things, potato gratin with rosemary and garlic, a reassuringly rustic chicken cacciatore with Yukon Gold potato gnocchi, green curry chicken with Thai basil and rice noodles (mmmkay, this one was a dud), a wonderfully scallopy Coquille St. Jacques, some wish-they-weren’t-so-good bleu cheese burgers, a delightfully decadent Shrimp Romesco with Paella Risotto & Chorizto (an FD exclusive made by Chef Terrance Brennan of Picholine and Artisanal), a tastytasty toasted almond frangipane tart, a dark chocolate pudding I wanted to bathe in, about a bazillion Asian salads with grilled chicken and Mandarin orange, and several surprisingly life-affirming stuffed cannelloni in red sauce dinners. With the exception of maybe one or two of those things, everything fell somewhere between mighty good and full-out fabulous. All were tablecloth worthy.
It's just plain lovely to eat Coquille St. Jacques in your undiepants. And the sight of those containers stacked in combat formation in my fridge? A warm combo of comfort and promise, that.
No comments:
Post a Comment