Here’s the Scoop: No One Actually Wants To Cook All Week
I’m about to set the record straight: nobody—NOBODY—should be making three from-scratch meals a day unless you’re getting paid, trapped in a reality show, or trying to win some imaginary martyrdom Olympics. Most of us are running on fumes and vibes by Wednesday. By Friday? I’m a pancake that gave up mid-flip. If tonight’s dinner rolls out on a conveyor belt or comes sealed in plastic, fuck it. That’s some smart living right there.
Frozen Food? Snack Plates? Hell Yes.
Let’s normalize dinner that requires exactly zero brain power. Fish sticks. Eggo waffles. A pizza pulled straight from the abyss of your freezer—bonus points if you have to chip ice off first. Or the classic, deeply chaotic snack plate: handful of pretzels, cheese ripped right off the block, whatever the hell fruit isn’t melting into the produce drawer. If you want to eat cereal with your hands on the couch & call it “a tasting experience,” I’m applauding from here. None of this is lazy. It’s resource deployment, baby.
The Bare Minimum Is Actually Genius
We’re all indoctrinated with some guilt-oozing nonsense that we’re supposed to be running meal prep like a Michelin chef every night. But here’s what they don’t tell you: “doing the bare minimum” is advanced life strategy, not failure. Skipping several unnecessary steps is what keeps your sanity from swan-diving straight into the garbage disposal. Plus, if you’re feeding people (yourself included), you did the job. No bonus points for more suffering. Zero-pressure meals are the unsung heroes keeping households upright. The bare minimum is what keeps you in the game.
Screw The “Gourmet” Expectation
That neighbor with the elaborate meal plan and three main dishes? Probably crying in the walk-in pantry. Social media is 9% sourdough and 91% smoke and mirrors. No one posting their baked-from-scratch labor loves washing dishes. Your kitchen doesn’t need to be a production set. There are no awards handed out for using 17 fresh herbs instead of pressing start on the microwave. Let people have their fancy-pants three-hour risotto. I will be over here not making risotto. Get honest with yourself for one red-hot second: if box mac & cheese buys you 90 minutes of quiet and nobody’s bleeding, that’s a damn win.
Here’s Your Permission Slip (Not That You Needed One)
This is your gentle, rowdy reminder: low-effort dinner is a triumph, not a cop-out. Survival counts. Raising humans (or just, you know, yourself) takes stamina and sometimes all you’ve got is enough to rip something open and heat it up. So what? No one is chiseling your name on the tombstone of “Didn’t Grate Their Own Cheese.” Waste less fucks on impressing fantasy critics and more on saving your own peace.
Take a picture of your toaster waffles if you want. Or don’t. Whatever. Here’s your gold star: you fed someone. Dinner: sorted.
The Potty Mouth Panda 