The Government’s Confusing $3 Dinner Recommendation

At first, we didn’t think much of it, the One Other Thing. When Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins suggested a meal of one corn tortilla, one piece of broccoli, one piece of chicken, and “one other thing”—all for a mere $3–we dwelled more on the other parts.

The one corn tortilla, the unit of broccoli, the piece of chicken! How strange and bland a combination! How stingy in contrast to the birthday steaks our leaders enjoyed! If we’d only known then. Corn tortilla. Broccoli. Chicken. And one other thing. Maybe a carrot! Maybe a bit of cheese! We assumed that it had to be food. That was our mistake, I think. Assuming that the One Other Thing had to be food.

And at first, after we signed on to receive the Recommended Meal, it was food. A mint. Some popcorn. An almond. Nothing too surprising. On the fifth night, we let the baby open it. He put it into his mouth immediately, and I had to fish it out. Something hard and black. That was when we noticed that it was coal. A lump of coal. He laughed, but we were unsettled. What had we signed up for?

After that, for a week, it was normal things. A gummy vitamin, a single blueberry, a small packet of relish.

Following the news of victory in the protein war, the One Other Thing seemed to be in a celebratory vein. It was protein every day: a scoop of whey; a bar full of nuts; a dry, pistachio-flavored cube.

But this was not to last. After the protein, we got something folded up in a thick envelope. “What is it, Mama?” my kids kept asking. I unfolded it and discovered what appeared to be a health plan? But it was only two pages long, and that included the cover page.

Sometimes, at least, it was something we could use around the house: an eraser shaped like the Statue of Liberty; tape; exactly five pencils. Once, it was a little origami replica of Mike Johnson. I don’t think it was edible, but the craftsmanship was very impressive.

For a while, the Thing was something to do with Greenland. A bit of torn-up charter; rocks; ice; a flake of mineral so small, it blew away when I tried to get a closer look. Now that’s over. I hope. Hope has been a mistake when it comes to the One Other Thing.

It’s been getting worse and worse. One night, a stamp with the president’s face on it. Another night, a discarded penny, now no longer legal tender.

The next night, the tinfoil contained a miniature wooden horse that sounded empty when I tapped it but, when I looked again, had opened and sent tiny soldiers swarming over the broccoli. They would have carried it off had I not acted quickly and placed a cup over them. Then a plastic retainer case with J. D. Vance’s Soul lettered on it. The next night, the scent of a woman’s perfume. The night following, a human tooth?

I began to dread the One Other Thing. I kept praying that it would be something we wanted, as simple as ketchup for the broccoli, or mustard for the chicken. A sauce of some kind.

The past few days, when I have gone to open it, nothing has been inside. Nothing I can see, at any rate. The foil is empty but smells of sulphur. All I get is a feeling of existential dread, like a giant fist tightening around my chest, every time I unwrap the foil packaging. Each day, it sits there at the corner of the plate, steaming, in its tinfoil. Waiting. And I know I have to look. Corn tortilla. Broccoli. Chicken. And One Other Thing. There is no escape from the One Other Thing.