The Day I Decided to Meal Prep and Created a Week of Questionable Tupperware Choices

Like most terrible decisions, it started on a Sunday afternoon and was inspired by a stranger on the internet.

She was beautiful, glowing, and casually placing mason jars full of layered salads into a spotless fridge while smiling like someone who’s never burnt rice in her life. She said things like, “Meal prep changed my life,” and “I just feel so organized now.”

I, on the other hand, had just eaten cereal out of a mug for the third meal in a row and decided: it’s time. I’m going to meal prep.

Spoiler: I was not ready.

My fridge was not ready.

And my Tupperware situation… was an actual crime scene.

Step 1: The Ambitious Grocery Run

I strutted into the store like I had a Food Network show and a plan. I had a list. I had a budget. I had high hopes.

I bought:

Sweet potatoes

Chickpeas (I don’t even like chickpeas???)

Kale (because Instagram said I should)

A suspicious amount of brown rice

Four chicken breasts that cost more than my dignity

And one bag of chia seeds that I have yet to understand

I also bought ten Tupperware containers, convinced they would usher in a new era of my life.

They did not.

Step 2: Prepping... and Regretting

The kitchen started out clean. Then I cut one onion and suddenly the counters looked like a cooking tornado had passed through.

I had four pots going at once. The oven was on. Something was boiling. I was chopping vegetables like I was auditioning for Top Chef: Mildly Panicked Edition.

The chickpeas betrayed me first. I thought, “I’ll roast them! They’ll be crunchy and fun!”

They turned out mushy, confused, and deeply disappointing.

Then the kale — good grief, the kale.

I massaged it because the internet told me to. I. Massaged. A. Leaf.

It still tasted like crunchy despair.

The sweet potatoes, to be fair, came out alright. But then I couldn’t remember which container had what seasoning, and one bite tasted like cinnamon while another hit me with paprika confusion.

I began to spiral.

Step 3: Tupperware Terrors

At this point, I had seven containers filled with things that vaguely resembled meals. I stacked them in the fridge with pride.

Then I opened the cabinet and realized the lids were all missing.

Where do they go?

Is there a Tupperware Bermuda Triangle?

Are they having a lid-only party without me?

I found some. None of them matched the bases. I had to use plastic wrap on one and a rubber band on another like I was DIY-ing a survival kit.

And don’t get me started on the container I thought was microwave safe. It was not.

Let’s just say melted plastic and kale do not pair well.

Step 4: The Monday Morning Reality Check

Day one. I woke up smug. I opened the fridge like a woman who has her life together. I grabbed a container of overnight oats (which, by the way, look like jail food no matter how many chia seeds you sprinkle on top) and headed to work.

Around 11 a.m., I made a huge mistake: I opened my lunch container in front of people.

The smell of reheated chickpeas mixed with kale sent three coworkers into early retirement. The container hissed when I opened it. My fork bent trying to stab the sweet potato. It was like my meal actively didn’t want to be eaten.

Still, I ate it. I was determined. I had committed.

I also had granola bars in my desk drawer, which became increasingly attractive with every sad bite.

By Wednesday, the Romance Was Over

I skipped Tuesday’s meal prep out of pure fear.

On Wednesday, I gave it another shot, only to discover my perfectly packed quinoa had fused with the container like they had become one in holy matrimony.

I also realized I cannot eat the same meal three days in a row without developing emotional resentment toward lentils.

At this point, I was bargaining with myself:

“If I eat one more sad veggie container, I can DoorDash sushi on Friday.”

“That counts as balance, right?”

“Didn’t someone say chocolate is technically a plant?”

The Great Chickpea Incident

Let me tell you about Thursday. I forgot to pack my lunch entirely and was forced to retrieve a backup container of chickpeas and kale from the office fridge.

I opened it.

It hissed. Again.

A coworker muttered, “Is that compost?”

I closed it. I wept softly. I ordered a sandwich that cost more than my weekly grocery budget.

At that moment, I realized something very important:

Meal prep? Is a scam.

What I Learned from My Meal Prep Meltdown

Tupperware is a cruel and chaotic entity.

The lids are never where they should be. The containers warp. One always leaks. It’s like being in a toxic relationship with your storage solutions.

Not all foods were meant to be eaten cold, three days later.

Roasted broccoli ages like milk. Chickpeas get vengeful. And quinoa? Quinoa just gives up.

Meal prep is not for the emotionally fragile.

If you’re the kind of person who needs meal “moods,” it’s hard to commit to the same sad salad five days in a row.

Having food ready is helpful—but only if it’s something you actually want to eat.

Plan for flexibility. Or at least variety. And maybe keep a frozen pizza on standby for emergencies (emergencies = all days ending in Y).

Would I Try It Again?

Honestly? Maybe.

But with lower expectations, fewer chickpeas, and a little more forgiveness for myself when I eat cereal for dinner.

Because sometimes self-care isn’t a rainbow mason jar of overnight oats.

Sometimes it’s saying, “Meal prep is hard. I’m doing my best. And I deserve noodles today.”