My Perfect Meal: Revised

Abby Calef

Dr. Heinritz

Food and Travel Seminar

13 November 2016

The Not So Perfect Meal

My most perfect meal is always on Thanksgiving. This is not because I particularly like thick slabs of turkey and gravy and not because I especially love pumpkin pie, or even the hilarious sight of my hyperactive, speckled dog attempting to jump up and kiss all of the guests’ faces, nearly knocking them down or forcing them to wipe their faces with napkins in disgust. Even Bailey enjoys Thanksgiving. I love Thanksgiving because it is the only time during the entire year when my whole family is together. It starts off with the anticipation: keeping a specific list of the times that flights arrive and riding back and forth with my mom and dad to the airport, 45 minutes away. A lot of my relatives fly late at night, after work; I love watching the bright lights in the darkness in the back seat while listening to the soft tones of my parents’ voices. My mom always packs me a blanket. My seat warmer is on, leaving my behind and back toasty while I rub my cold hands together, in hopes of warmth throughout my entire body. I never fail to fall asleep to the dark warmth.

We squeeze far too many people into our quaint house and the empty space is filled with laughter. All of the couches are filled up, the guest room, and there are air mattresses in the strangest places; probably a safety hazard, but we’ve learned well over the years to jump over them. Hugs are supplied at any point throughout the day; asking isn’t even necessary. The smell of apple candles and food fills up the entire home and it feels so special and warm. My uncle always makes the turkey, but sets it in the oven when he gets to the house. There are plates and plates of hors d’oeuvres covering all of the countertops with various cheese, fruits and veggies. Everyone I love brings a part of the meal, even if it is simply their wit, and that is what makes it taste so good.

While I knew going into my recreation of the perfect meal that I couldn’t exactly recreate Thanksgiving and have all of my relatives book last minute flights and sleep on my dorm room floor, I didn’t know it would go exactly like this. To say that the 2016 presidential election had an enormous impact on my perfect meal would be an understatement. Pasta with butter, parmesan cheese, garlic, oregano and basil would seem easy enough to prepare for the average chef (or maybe even less than average). Maybe it was the cucumber tomato salad, which did, in fact only consist of tomatoes and cucumbers with balsamic vinaigrette, that really stirred the pot. It’s possible that the garlic bread wasn’t crispy enough, or salty enough, or maybe the seasonings overpowered the sourdough flavor. Nonetheless, the day I decided to invite my boyfriend, roommate and suite mate for a perfect meal was the day after America was in mourning, suffering a great loss and for some, a great gain. I learned that cooking pasta with a spatula rather than a wooden spoon, using mini, individual salt packets rather than a shaker and cutting garlic and hard vegetables with a butter knife make cooking quite difficult, but not entirely impossible. Although the meal was delayed due to a loss of words and appetite and my roommate could no longer attend, something strong and beautiful was still able to bloom out of one of the darkest of moments.

It all started with an idea. Organic. Think organic. As I physically watched my wallet decrease in size throughout my shopping expedition, I knew I was doing the right thing. Supporting local businesses, feeling clean and pure about what was going into my body and feeling comfortable with what I was serving other people were worth the extra dollars. Shopping at the food co-op in Kalamazoo brought back different, yet happy, familiar feelings as the food co-op in Ann Arbor could practically survive off of the amount of money my parents and I have spent there. My perfect meal would have been shared with my parents, as many of the most perfect meals have been shared with them already. This could be because the food always tastes better when my mom cooks it, or maybe because my parent’s budget is slightly less limited than mine. Meals away from them tend to leave me a little less full, hungry for something than I can only really get at home. And now, I needed them more than ever.

The night after the election was a very difficult time for me. Having my roommate vote for the opposing candidate and having my boyfriend not vote at all left me feeling very isolated in a small space full of many people. Listening to my roommate complain about the people who were crying over the election results had my blood boiling at just about the same temperature as the pasta water. I wasn’t hungry and neither was she. As the hours grew later, I became very tired waiting for my boyfriend to get back from a prolonged baseball practice and my mind was in no place to cook and indulge in a perfect meal. There was nothing perfect about that moment. The hunger for hugging my parents at a time like this left my stomach even more empty.

My suite mate was all I had. Sophie, with her short hair, usually dark brown or blue colored lips and sarcastic attitude left her door unlocked for me at all times after the election. After running into her room, she asked me if I wanted to talk or just sit. She read my silence as words spoken aloud and sat quietly with me, leaving the soft hums of the space heater in the background. This was the first time I had heard silence in a while. We sat in the quiet warmth. I knew she was busy, but she set her books down and waited.

I was reluctant to have spent so much money on a meal for my boyfriend who was too preoccupied with baseball and chocolate milk to notice the difference between organic spaghetti and Kraft mac n’ cheese and my roommate who didn’t seem to notice my silence and sadness, which, I felt absorbed the entire room. Sophie suggested we postpone. We scheduled the not-so-perfect meal for that Friday night. However, in the nicest way possible, we completely forgot about Sophie’s boyfriend’s jazz performance, which we had all agreed to attend. This meant that we had exactly 35 minutes to cook and 15 to eat.

We were most definitely pressed for time. We threw the pot of water on the stove and melted the butter with garlic and basil and drizzled it over the bread not so delicately. I chopped the garlic and vegetables at my fastest pace possible, consciously looking at my hands every three seconds to make sure all of my fingers were still connected to my body. There was food flying around an unfamiliar, strange kitchen and the mess is, let’s just say, most likely still there. The fan on the microwave was loud and made it difficult for us to hear each other, as the dorm building’s stove tops often smoke.

It didn’t feel perfect when we ate. We were rushed and dumped loads of pasta on our plates without even having a chance to think about it. We didn’t get to savor the flavors or wipe the oozing butter off our fingers. But that’s beside the point. The rushed cooking and eating didn’t matter. The fact was, my suite mate cancelled plans with her boyfriend last minute, even though she was all dressed up. She got drenched in butter, cheese and garlic just to make me happy. Compared to my roommate and boyfriend, who thought of this meal simply as something that they had to show up to, almost reluctantly clearing their schedules, my suite mate noticed how important this was to me.

The kindness of her soul warmed the cold and unfamiliar kitchen in a time when the darkness had consumed every other space. She was the perfect to my meal, not the tasty food, but her. It was nothing like Thanksgiving, but I was still thankful. Sophie brought her space heater into my room; its breaths of warm air shielded the cool air that was flowing through my roommate’s window. I will never be able to forget my not-so-perfect meal.