Romantic Doggie Bag

chocolate pie

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My husband’s work  travel has always taken place in spurts and life is definitely less fun when he’s away.

I remember one particularly hard week, stuck at home alone, feeling like crap, with two very-active-is-a-gross-understatement young boys. Matt’s week ended with a return to the area to wine and dine customers.

Around 11 pm, he called to say that he was not only finally on his way home, but he had a nice treat for me. Knowing me to be his “Forget chicken soup! I want chocolate!” girl, he knew the way to my heart. To cheer me up, he said, he was bringing me a doggie bag (Styrofoam box) with a luscious piece of French silk pie.

Since he was 45 minutes away when he called, I passed the time salivating like Pavlov’s dog and making decaf coffee to have with my romantic gift. By the time he arrived, I had a plate with two forks and hot coffee at the ready.

With anticipatory pomp and circumstance, we opened the box to a horrific sight.

Steak T Bone

Not what I wanted to see

The restaurant staff had mixed up their to-go boxes. Instead of pie, I was looking down at a gnawed on T-bone from some stranger’s steak.

Disappointed German Shepherd


After ranting that Matt call the restaurant and insist they deliver me some pie, pulling my hair out, etc., I realized it could have been worse.

I could be some German shepherd, salivating in anticipation of a juicy bone that his master called to tell him to expect, only to find one of the few things dogs aren’t allowed to eat in the box—chocolate.

At this years’ company party, we won a gift card to that swanky restaurant. I’m finally going to get that piece of pie.

© Laura Hedgecock 2013
Interested in sharing your memories? My website, Treasure Chest of Memories, has tips, resources, and a blog about memory sharing.


6 thoughts on “Romantic Doggie Bag

  1. When I was a poor college student living on noodles, I was invited to a wedding at a swanky country club. They served prime rib — huge slabs on each person’s plate. I realized that it could feed my roommates and me for days, so I pretended I wasn’t hungry and asked the waiter for a doggie bag. No good deed goes unpunished, of course. The waiter must have thought I had an actual dog, or maybe a dozen ravenous wolves, because he got an enormous bag and proceeded to fill it with the leftovers from every plate. He made sure I had it, wrapped in both arms because it was so heavy, when I staggered out to catch the El train back to Hyde Park. I think that homeless man at the entrance is still wondering about the girl in the formal dress who gave him a bag of grilled cow. I hope he liked it, but as I ate my noodles, I mourned that missing prime rib.


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