I don't get it. Just as my mind cannot comprehend the oceans of soda pop consumed by our great nation—these people and their Big Gulps are somehow entirely outside my sphere—I fail to grasp who the hell would have plastic-encased meals for the entire week delivered to their house by a service specifically for this purpose. These people are not only too busy to cook, they're too busy to eat out, get takeout, or run into Whole Foods and stock up. They could afford to do these things; these delivery services aren't cheap. Yet a refrigerator full of food made by someone else, brought to the door, awaiting reheating, signals freedom for them. At least a half-dozen such services exist in the Seattle area. All claim to be "healthy," some are organic (certainly boosting their popularity), some offer nutrition information. They have elaborate online menus, minimum order requirements, delivery schedules and fees. They seem to be doing well; one is a million-dollar-a-year business. The mind boggles. "Busy professionals" are the consumers here. A local daily paper suggests ordering food for friends who are new parents or bereaved (oh, the cycle of life). One of the services suggests you might want to listen to your favorite CD and kick off your shoes while dining, which you cannot do at a restaurant. I would suggest that there's something to be said for eating dinner with your shoes on.

Having the fridge stuffed to the gills with food from three of these services was a mildly exciting prospect. In reality, it inescapably reminded me of only one thing: the refrigerator of my grandmother in her decline, when she insisted on living alone on her rural ranch but finally agreed to a meals-on-wheels-type arrangement, from which she would hoard the butter patties. My problem, yes, yet distinctly unappetizing. The dinners aged a couple days in my fridge (as they would in the fridge of the busy professional, I reasoned; all were eaten long before the expiration dates).

To try to be fair, I deployed candles, cloth napkins, plates. (Note that just heating some of this stuff up created a considerable quantity of dirty dishes, which the busy professional surely isn't eager to wash. Also: a distressingly huge pileup of plastic waste, supposedly recyclable, but everyone knows the postconsumer plastic market sucks, what with the glut of two-liter pop bottles.) I wore my shoes.

The almost all-organic meals of Delicious Planet (www.delicious-planet.com) showed up silently outside my door in a Styrofoam box big enough to contain a full set of donor organs. As the $1-million-a-year business, Delicious Planet ought to know better than to foist already-steamed broccoli on its patrons—the reheat's just not going to go well—yet there it was, alongside an almond-crusted chicken breast and brown rice pilaf (medium entrée, $13.95). The arrangement was reminiscent of airline food, back when airlines had food; pulling it out of the oven with its tinfoil lid, I felt like a stewardess, back when airlines had stewardesses. The pilaf was tasty, the chicken fine, the broccoli a travesty. On a plane, you'd be psyched; at a restaurant, you'd be pissed; at home, you're flummoxed. Another medium-sized entrée of grilled flank steak, irretrievably well-done, had a bright, herby chimichurri, cumin-sprinkled potatoes, and not-horribly-overcooked cauliflower. It cost $15.50—fifteen dollars and fifty cents. Hello?

The arrival of the all-vegetarian/nearly all-organic cuisine of Lucky Palate (www.luckypalate.com) was heralded by the knock of a nice hippie. She apologized sincerely for awakening me at 11:00 a.m.; the guilt of the slothful omnivore enveloped me. I ate $9 worth of the food immediately (a not-very-hot-nor-very-sour hot 'n' sour soup and two loosely rolled, damp rice-paper spring rolls with an undeniably sour peanut sauce). By 3:30 p.m., I was starving. For supper, though, Lucky Palate's tarragon white beans ($6.50 a pound) were a favorite: buttery-tasting beans, hint of lemon, crunchy pieces of leek. They reheated beautifully in a saucepan and felt like true sustenance. A casserole ($7 a pound), warmed in the oven per instructions, not so much: The polenta base became sodden from the liquids of a dense layer of mushrooms and greens on top.

Indian food actually makes sense in this weird delivery context. Curries and stews get better with (a little) time, lend themselves to reheating, and have concentrated flavors, even when you order everything medium and it's all labeled mild, as was the case with Turmeric 'n More (www.turmericnmore.com). A fluffy cushion of naan ($2) revived superbly in foil in a hot oven, with charred places on the underside lending it legitimacy. The bird in the pomegranate chicken ($10.50) was tender and had actual bones. I'd never had bund gobhi aur narial, a sweet/tart cabbage-and-coconut slaw ($3.50), before, and malai kofta, potato-and-cheese balls in a slightly gritty curry sauce ($8.50), was commendably tangy and spicy. All in all: above average Indian food, and much like something you'd intentionally eat. Turmeric 'n More uses whole grains, "fresh vegetables," and halal meat, and claims to be high fiber/protein, low carb/salt/fat. Still, several of the takeout containers had stubborn, thick sheens of oil, and a standing order would burn out any standard affection for Indian food pretty damn quick.

These services are clearly finding their target market, which clearly isn't me: I felt tethered to my fridge, oppressed by the stacks of waiting foodstuff. I wanted to shop, cook, go out, or just have toast. Sometimes freedom tastes like toast.