Less Than Perfect

             I wanted to go all out.  While thinking up ideas for my “perfect meal,” I wanted to go big or go home.  But before I could even think about the menu, I had to decide who I would invite.  My best friend Dan would definitely be coming; it wouldn’t be a perfect meal without him.  I couldn’t invite him without his roommate Ricky, not after all our late night adventures together to the Crow’s Nest.  Nick and Alaina have been two of my closest friends since the beginning of our freshman year of college and I wanted them there.  I’m in love with Ian, so obviously he was invited.  And it wouldn’t be a real dinner with my group of friends without Conrad.  This meant inviting Aaron as well, because it would be rude to treat his three roommates to dinner and not feed him too.  And of course my roommate Julia needed to be there.  Including myself, that was nine mouths to feed.  This was starting to sound expensive, but the most important aspect of a meal is the company it’s shared with, and I wanted all of them to know that it wouldn’t be perfect without them.

            The next question then was what to serve all these people.  My first bright idea was to get some type of fish.  I absolutely love fish, but I’ve never trusted the cafeteria seafood.  And since it’s rarely served anyway, I thought it would be a welcome surprise for my friends.  But I had to be realistic, nine servings of fresh fish on a college budget was not going to happen.  Plan B was some kind of meat, as I will pretty much eat anything if it was alive once.  I’m quite the carnivore.  But I had never bought meat before, and I didn’t really know how.  The thought of going into a grocery store and trying to buy meat terrified me.  What if the butcher asked me a question I couldn’t answer?  What if they didn’t have what I wanted, and I’d need to make a new decision on the spot?  What if I somehow said the name of the meat wrong and the butcher judged me? So, due to my fear of talking to people, I opted to make pasta. 

            On a Sunday afternoon I walked from my college campus to the People’s Food Co Op in downtown Kalamazoo.  There I purchased two packages of Bionaturae Organic Rigatoni, four giant freshly grown, pesticide free broccoli, a box of Cabot Butter (owned by dairy farmers since 1919), and two tomatoes.  They were out of the cheese I needed, so on my way home I stopped at Munchie Mart, a sketchy looking convenience store located across the street from campus where college kids buy their alcohol, cigarettes, and occasionally Kraft Parmesan Cheese.  In a tiny borrowed refrigerator back in my dorm room was a carton of Organic Valley Farmer-Owned Milk and some Pastured Brown Eggs from the Old Home Place that my roommate had left over from her meal.  So, feeling accomplished and grown up and terribly liberal I gathered my organic foods and my borrowed pots and bowls and headed down to the small kitchen in the basement of my dorm and set to work. 

            The plan was to make noodles with Alfredo sauce with a side of broccoli.  The Alfredo sauce seemed easy enough to make, melt a stick of butter and mix in two cups of milk, then add an egg yolk and pour the mixture onto boiled noodles.  Sprinkle some Parmesan cheese in at the end and some sliced tomatoes and I’d have my main course.  I’d planned on steaming the broccoli and finally show the cafeteria that it was possible to make vegetables that weren’t soggy. 

            I do not know why I thought I had any authority in teaching anyone any lessons in preparing food.  I do not cook.  Ever.  I once tried to heat up soup for myself and burned it.  Last year I called my roommate so she could walk me through how to make popcorn because I was scared I’d mess it up.  And yet here I was, about to attempt making a “perfect meal.” 

            I began by leisurely chopping the broccoli.  I had finished with the first stalk when I looked up at the clock and realized I only had twenty minutes before my guests would arrive.  Kicking it into high gear, I filled my big pot with water and put it on a wobbly burner.  The burner started making weird noises so I set it on a smaller one and moved onto my Alfredo sauce.  Smoke began rising from this burner, so I had to move to the last remaining one.  A little agitated by the state of my appliances I tried to regain my composure and got back to work.   

            While the butter melted in my smaller pan I flipped my computer open to the Youtube video titled, “How To Make Alfredo Sauce.”  Being sure not to let the butter burn, just as it told me, I paced around the kitchen, nervous about the time, knowing my friends are all busy with intense science classes.  I dreaded the idea of serving my meal late and wasting any of their time.  I wanted to get back to cutting the broccoli, but didn’t want to take my eye off the butter even for a second.  I also realized I would need another pan to steam the broccoli in, which I didn’t have.  Nor, I realized, a cover for it.  Not wanting to deal with that problem because I saw no obvious solution, I ignored it and continued to focus on my butter.

            When it was entirely melted I excitedly poured the milk in and waited to see my anticipated sauce become reality.  But something wasn’t right.  The two weren’t mixing.  The warm butter was hardening in the cold milk, congealing into disgusting lumps that resembled the texture of caviar.  I didn’t know what to do.  This didn’t look anything like the smooth, elegant looking sauce in the video playing behind me.  Why was this happening?  With ten minutes to go before my meal was supposed to be served I took out my cell phone and prepared to send all my friends a message saying dinner was cancelled. 

            I stopped myself, did a quick pep talk, and then put the mess back on the burner.  As the milk heated, the butter began to soften and turn back to liquid.  My relief was short lived.  The water in the big pot was boiling and it was time to add the pasta, which, of course, did not all fit into the pot.  I stirred it as best I could, but noodles were falling onto the stovetop left and right.  I still couldn’t deal with the broccoli because I was constantly stirring my sauce, terrified something else might happen to it if I left it alone for even a second.  I decided not to add the egg, not wanting to do anything else that might mess it up.

            And then people began showing up.  First Julia came down and took many pictures of me hunched over my pots and the many noodle casualties splattered around me.  I described to Conrad and Dan the harrowing tale of my sauce, who politely laughed and then told me dinner was looking great, and the delay was no problem.  I called my mother and received a quick tutorial on how to make broccoli in the microwave. 

            Already behind schedule, I was shaking and sweating and my voice was about three octaves higher than it normally is when it was finally time to pour the  slightly undercooked noodles into the colander.   With both arms I tried to move the pot full of boiling water six inches over to the sink.  After two failed attempts Nick came by and lifted it with one hand.  He kindly smiled at me while I spooned the remaining noodles into the colander, which proceeded to tip over and spill into the sink. 

            Once the noodles were back in the pot I added the cheese and called to everyone that dinner was ready.  My friends entered the small kitchen and took their helpings while I cut up the last of the broccoli.  I was sad to see that Alaina had not returned from her weekend home yet, and Dan told me that Ricky was feeling too sick to come, but I still had six guests and most of a dinner.  While we ate around a table in the lounge of our dorm under a florescent light I put the broccoli in the microwave.  By the time it was done everyone had finished their pasta.  I scarfed it down without really noticing the taste.  I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained and was just happy the thing was edible.  Once the broccoli was done I went back into the kitchen and sliced up the tomatoes that were supposed to have been chopped and sprinkled on the pasta.  Lacking a plate, I tore some paper towels from the wall dispenser and plopped them down in the center of the table. 

            Everyone told me the food was good, which was a lie.  It was mediocre, maybe even decent.  But they knew I needed the confidence boost, and I was grateful for it.  Dan and I often argue like an old married couple, but from the moment he walked into the kitchen and asked how it was going he used his “nice tone,” his, “Katie is upset so I better be extra charming” voice.  Aaron had already eaten dinner and only tried one fork-full from Nick’s bowl, but he still shouted compliments that echoed down the entire hall. 

            After everyone had cleared their plates Nick, Dan, and Aaron took off.  I had served my meal half an hour late and I knew they all had homework they needed to get back to.  I thanked them for coming and began mentally preparing myself for the mountain of dishes I had to do.  And then Ian, wonderful individual that he is, said the kindest words of the night.

“Is there anymore?”  He wanted more.  Then Julia and Conrad got up and got seconds too.  I hadn't even noticed that Julia had brought her pepper and fancy sea salt to the table (much nicer than the salt shaker I “borrowed” from the cafeteria).  I waited for my friends to serve themselves and then took the last of the pasta, or at least whatever wasn’t completely stuck to the bottom of the pot or flung onto the counter top.

I paid much more attention to the flavor this time.  It needed more cheese and it definitely needed salt, but once they were added it really wasn’t so bad.  The microwave steamed broccoli was finished off, the pasta was gone, and I got to eat the last slice of fresh tomato.  No left over’s.

Once they were done, Conrad and Ian left.  Julia stayed behind to help with the dishes.  She ended up doing most of them while I hacked at the noodles stuck to the bottom of the big pot.  Later that night, the two of us took advantage of the kindness of one of our friends and sent him out, alone, into the cold night to fetch us ice cream.  A pint of Ben and Jerry’s Pish Food  eaten straight from the container was a welcome treat after my exhausting night. 

Looking back at the meal, I wouldn’t say it was “perfect,” but I didn’t hate it necessarily.  It was an interesting experience.  I’d like to say I learned something from it.  My friends proved to be reliable and accepting and their kindness got me through the process.  At least the company was perfect.  

(Hey guys- So I'm really not a fan of the ending.  I kind of ran out of steam, so suggestions on how to improve that would be appreciated.  Also, sorry about the length.  The story is basically in two parts.  Part One is me figuring out what to make and buying supplies.  Part Two is the actual making and eating of the meal.  I like both parts and I think they flow well together, but it makes it pretty long.  What do you guys think?
Also, I wanted this to be a funny piece, but I'm worried I came off more whiney than humorous.  Your thoughts?)