I wanted to go all out. Since the day I was given the assignment to cook my “perfect meal” I had been dreaming up big plans. 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 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 crowns, a box of Cabot Butter (owned by dairy farmers since 1919), and two tomatoes. They had run 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 said I could use. 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. I’d found the recipe online and had talked to my mother for extended periods of time discussing the different approaches to steaming vegetables. I picked Alfredo sauce because I’d had it before at restaurants, and also because it seemed easy enough to make. Just 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 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 had high hopes for my dinner. My closest friends, who got me through freshman year, who accepted me despite my awkwardness and patiently waited for me to open up to them, would taste my appreciation in a home cooked meal. Nick would flash his charming smile once he tasted the rich Alfredo sauce. Aaron would take a bite and shout about how great it was. Alaina would tell me it was “mad good.” Throughout the meal Dan and Ricky would keep the conversation going. Their humor would bounce off of one another and they’d keep me laughing and smiling all night. Conrad would probably make some sort of awkward joke or yell obscenities at inappropriate times, which could only further the entertainment of the meal. Ian and I would reminisce about the hiking trip we took together and all the food we ate while roughing it in the woods. And Julia would take tons of pictures, as she loves to do around food, and we’d spend the rest of the night talking about what a success my dinner was.
With this image in mind, I began 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, did I have 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. She was her usual cheery self, and her laughter helped to improve the grim atmosphere of the kitchen. 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. His strict regimen of workouts and muscle milk seemed to be paying off. 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 scooped up and placed back in the pot I added the sauce and then 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 an ugly florescent light, I put the broccoli in the microwave. By the time it was done everyone had finished their pasta. I ate mine 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 out his compliments, incapable of keeping his voice down for an extended period of time, just as I’d hoped.
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 said the kindest words of the night.
“Is there anymore?” He wanted more. Ian normally eats about twice as much as the average person does, but it was still had to believe he meant it. 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 cafeteria serves Fettuccini Alfredo a couple of times per quarter. The guys always complain about the lack of cheese and its desperate need for salt. When I was making mine I had a vision that it would be better, that my home cooked meal would be a welcome break from the cafeteria’s usual bland, tasteless food. In that regard I failed. But my microwave steamed broccoli was finished off, the pasta was gone, and I got to eat the last slice of fresh tomato. No leftovers.
My meal was not perfect. I had wanted it to be a display of gratitude and appreciation to my friends. I wanted to make a grand feast with love mixed in so delicately they would taste it. But the only secret ingredients I managed to add were stress and anxiety, which only tasted mildly better than the laziness and lack of concern we are so used to in our cafeteria meals. I had wanted it to taste good, and my result was disappointing. But in the end, my friends proved once again to be reliable and accepting. I couldn’t give them perfect. But at least I managed to give them well-cooked broccoli.
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