Perfect Meal rough draft

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 (however, I do, really love pumpkin pie), but because it is the only time during the entire year when my whole family is together. The cleaning comes first. Being the child who gets home the quickest, I play a very crucial role. The cleaning is stressful and my mom is usually panicking about how many pairs of shoes I have down stairs and if they are all necessary, but it’s tolerable and almost enjoyable simply knowing what we’re cleaning for. 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 parent’s voices. My seat warmer is on, and I almost always fall asleep to the dark warmth. My mom always packs me a blanket. Trying to save money, we squeeze far too many people into our quaint house, and the empty space is filled with loud talking and laughter. All of the couches are filled up, the guest room, and there are air mattresses in the strangest places. Hugs are supplied at any point throughout the day; you don’t even have to ask. The smell of food and apple candles fills up the entire home and it just feels so warm. The thanksgiving meal is stressful for my parents, as it is always held at our house. They are always somehow rushed with the cooking, no matter how many days in advance they start. My uncle always makes the turkey, but sets it in the oven when he gets to the house. The men in the house drink beer, and the women drink wine or beer or both. 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 is 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 a bit 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 pennies. Shopping at the food coop in Kalamazoo brought back different, yet happy, familiar feelings as the food co op in Ann Arbor could practically only 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 had 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. However, the miles to and the money spend at the food co op were definitely a good choice. My perfect meal would consist of fresh, home-cooked food that was acquired from grocery stores that I trust, hopefully organic and even local if possible. It would only consist of brand names that I’m familiar with or that my mom usually cooks. Growing up in Ann Arbor and actually having the opportunity to know some of the kind, hardworking people who own various stores and restaurants has made me appreciate local businesses and recognize the value in supporting them. The People’s Food Co op in Kalamazoo, Michigan’s produce and store-made products all come from within 100 miles of their location. Co ops are primarily known for the fact that they are cooperative businesses. Cooperative businesses are technically owned by their consumers, which means that the profits are either returned to the “owners” or are used for bettering the community.

Although the food Co op is good for many things, I decided it was probably best to continue my adventure over to Meijer for things such as: tin foil, baking sheets, paper plates and pre-packaged cookie dough. Kitchen ware can be found much cheaper in chain grocery stores, as opposed to food co ops. After compromising my morals for a delicious package of Toll-House cookie dough and one dollar and fifty cent fruit juice, the shopping trip was over and it was time to make the meal. Of course, here’s where it went slightly wrong.

The night after the election was very difficult 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 upset because of the election results had my blood boiling just as much as the pasta. I wasn’t hungry and neither was she. 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 seeing my parents left my stomach even more empty.

My suite-mate kindly took me in her room and offered to help in many different ways, even though I knew she was very busy. She even offered to cook the entire meal by herself, while I told her what to do. But most importantly, she offered the emotional support that was stolen from me on that Tuesday night. She was the greatest support system I had ever had, and our relationship became that much stronger through the whole fiasco. We came to the conclusion that the perfect meal should be postponed to a date a few days later, when everyone could truly enjoy it.

We were 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 of our fingers. In fact, I don’t even think I heard anyone say “thank you”. But that wasn’t the point. The rushed cooking and the rushed eating didn’t matter. The fact was, my suite-mate cancelled her plans last minute, even though she was all dressed up and got drenched in butter, cheese and garlic just to make me happy. She helped with everything and when she noticed my stress levels increasing, offered her hand even though both were being used. 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. I will never be able to forget my not-so-perfect meal.