I had assumed Paul had taken them to work and eaten them. “So that went into your bottomless ‘mortgage’ too?”
“Oh, so we ate it!” Paul exploded. “Why are you turning a few meatballs into a Greek tragedy? I’m a man. I made a decision to help my sister.”
“A man makes decisions using his own resources, Paul. His own time, his own money, his own labor,” I said, clipping off every word. “When you secretly hand out food I spent my weekend and my paycheck preparing, that isn’t generosity. That’s stealing from your own kitchen.”
Sarah gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “How dare you speak to your husband like that? You ought to be kissing his feet for marrying you at all, divorced as you are!”
I gave a short laugh. For the record, we were standing in my apartment, bought before the marriage.
“Sarah, don’t confuse cause and effect. He’s the one who should be grateful I tolerate his socks under my couch. Now, back to the point.”
I turned the notebook toward me. “Beef Bourguignon: a pound of good tenderloin, red wine, mushrooms, bacon, pearl onions. Plus two hours of my life letting it simmer properly. Stuffed peppers: farm-ground beef, bell peppers, rice, sauce. And today you were trying to walk out with eight servings of meatballs and goulash.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, how much meat could there be?” Sarah rolled her eyes. She rummaged through her purse, pulled out her wallet, fished out a crumpled five-dollar bill, and flung it onto the table. “Here. Choke on it. Buy yourself a bag of rice and cook more, Your Majesty of the Freezer.”
I looked at the bill. Then I looked at her.
“Sarah, pick up that little piece of paper. Otherwise, I’m going to tape it to your forehead.”
Paul sprang up. “Olivia, stop it! Sarah, don’t listen to her. She’s had a stressful day at work. Take the containers and go. I said you could.”
He reached for the freezer handle.
I took one step and placed myself between him and the refrigerator. My face must have looked the way it does when I’m dealing with drunk maintenance guys who refuse to go down into a flooded basement.
“Touch that door, Paul, and your suitcase will fly off the balcony before you manage to say the word ‘genetics.’”
My husband froze. He knew that voice. It was the dispatcher’s voice—the one that logs the emergency and shuts down the main line.
“Here is what’s going to happen,” I said, tapping my pen against the table. “Simply returning the food won’t solve anything, because the first batch has already been devoured. I’m not cooking it all again. Starting tomorrow, I have three twelve-hour shifts in a row. But I am also not going to spend those shifts coming home to an empty fridge because the two of you decided my freezer was a charity pantry.”
I picked up my phone and opened the app for a well-known restaurant that delivered decent homestyle meals.
Paul narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Restoring balance.” I began adding dishes to the cart. “Braised beef with mushrooms, three servings. Stuffed peppers, four servings. That covers what Sarah carried off on Wednesday. Total… seventy-five dollars, including delivery.”
“How much?” Paul and Sarah yelped in unison.
“Seventy-five. Prepared, edible food cooked by someone else’s hands. With the right energy, Sarah.”
“You’re insane!” my sister-in-law shrieked. “For a piece of meat and a handful of rice? That’s worth pennies!”
“Pennies are what raw ingredients cost at the store. You ate finished meals. You stole my labor, and labor has value. If this restaurant bothers you so much, we can choose another place.”