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Sara Leeder is a producer on The Cafferty File.
“Hi, honey. I’m home. What’s for dinner?”
Ok, maybe I don’t always say “honey,” but most nights when walking through the door at 7:30, I do ask what’s for dinner. My husband and I both work full-time jobs and we both take care of our toddler son, but my husband gets home from work a couple of hours earlier than I do. This means that if we’re going to eat a home-cooked meal, he will be the one slaving over the hot stove. As it turns out my husband is part of a growing group of men who are doing the cooking. Some of them are so into it, they’re called “gastrosexuals.”
When we started dating, I used to joke with my him that I was the only one who ever did any cooking. Well, not anymore. Two to three nights a week he’s the one sautéing, slicing and dicing. And he’s not half bad either.
"Ding dong." "Buzz." "Knock, knock." Delivery.
It’s pizza. Or sushi. Or Chinese food, Italian, Thai, burritos or burgers. I fumble for my wallet, secretly wishing my husband makes it to our apartment door first. I have no desire to be the one to decide how much to tip the delivery guy. Some women want a man around when it’s time to kill an insect or plunge the toilet – my fear is the delivery tip.
Ordering in food is a way of life in New York. Our kitchens are small, our work days long, our social calendars are full and perhaps we’re just lazy. We also can pick from nearly any type food imaginable – from dirt cheap to high end – and have it delivered to our door in a matter of minutes. It’s a huge convenience, but it’s partially offset by the anxiety of figuring out the tip. If I’m the one to answer the door, I usually grab the receipt from the delivery guy (and no, I have never seen a woman doing the job) [Ed. note – plenty of delivery ladies out here in Brooklyn], scan it and try to do some quick math in my head.