In my quest to make anything "perfect," I always opt for the
back seat approach. For me, it is no use to plan out an ideal situation, or
even have high expectations, because sooner or later reality will come up
short. So, when I received
an assignment to cook a perfect meal for a writing class, zero planning took
place. I gave myself simply one rule: if there is food in the kitchen, then
cook it. Low and behold, on the day of dinner perfection, I opened my
cupboards, refrigerator, and freezer of my campus house kitchen to check out
the loot. Hidden beneath the Lean Cuisines and Pizza Rolls in the freezer I
spotted pink meat marbled with white fat, vacuum sucked in a Ziploc bag. A
diamond in the rough some would call it; I plucked that chicken out of the freezer
as fast as I could.
With upcoming exams that required studying, I quickly tossed the rock
hard meat on to the counter to thaw. Well, thirty minutes later, upon returning
from Upjohn's Library on Kalamazoo College's campus, I found that the meat was still
frozen. A search on Google guided me to microwave the meat for fifteen minutes
to defrost. The online food forums also warned against de-thawing meat on the
counter, but I figured “carpe diem” and pretended like nothing happened.
While the microwave cooked the meat, I decided to take some initiative on
the rest of the meal. First, I needed some motivation and inspiration. My 3D
glasses are always a must when cooking. They provide optical confidence with
their busted out shades, and sleek black temples that lead into square frames.
They proudly read "Real D 3D." I often tell my roommates that they
let me see another dimension, or they allow me to gaze into the future. In
reality, they give me another person to be for an hour. With my 3D glasses, I
suddenly take on strange French accents, and become the top chef in the world!
Escalating the insanity, I needed one more thing to prep me for the perfect
meal: some funky music.
Squished between books, I forced my laptop out
of my backpack and I logged on to 8tracks.com. Only one set of songs can ever get me pumped up for a culinary
explosion: “the nineties//summertime” playlist. The first song "Steal my
Sunshine" popped on and a smile grew across my face. Ready to go!
I danced on over to the fridge, and pulled out multiple bags of fresh
produce from the bottom drawer. The clouded plastic bags crinkled their way to
the counter. After opening them, I uncovered part of a leftover onion, a lone
sweet potato, garlic, and sprigs of rosemary. I thought "I can work with
this," until a microwave ding interrupted my flow. I opened the door to
find a sad, warm chicken breast oozing out juices. I pried it off the
plate and sat it in a glass pan, leaving a white crust and fluids in its wake.
I prayed that no one would become sick as I decorated the poultry in two
tablespoons of butter and the rosemary. I slid the pan in the oven and turned
my mind elsewhere to avoid the worry and guilt coming over me.
I pulled out two pots from the cabinet and filled them with a few cups of
water each. While they were heating up, I skipped on over to the cutting board
and began to chop up the onions and garlic. As my head bobbed to the music, I
lost my control over the vegetables and a rampant garlic clove slipped between
the counter and stove, waiting to be eaten by a hungry critter. I was careless
and laughing, and the pots began steaming, cutting off my oxygen. A mad
scientist watching her chemical reactions, I turned to my pots to watch them
boil. Though the saying goes, "a watched pot never boils," by the
graces of the 3rd dimension of my glasses, the water in those two pots started
to simmer. Peering into the black bottom, the air bubbles rose until the water
strengthened into a fierce boil. I felt on top of the world, and ready to take
on the rest of the meal.
I plopped rainbow rotini into one pot, watching the orange, yellow, and
green noodles tumble from the box to the water. Next, I cut up the sweet potato
into circular rounds. Previously, I have been unsuccessful in thoroughly cooking
my sweet potatoes, so I was hoping the small pieces would cook faster and prove
edible for my meal. They ended up in the second pot, and soon enough my work
reduced from cooking to dancing.
I was getting my freak on singing "I just want to fly, put your arms
around me baby..." when I heard some one yell "schioasht" coming
from the foyer. My friend Laura just returned from dinner at a local eatery,
"Food Dance," the aroma of the house startled her. Laura’s gibberish
words indicated that the scents stemming from the kitchen were well received.
It took me this incident to wake up and smell the rosemary, or something like
that. I took a big whiff and realized that the baking herbs filled the room
with a natural woodsy fragrance. Brought to my senses, I checked all my dishes
in progress.
The pasta now saturated, I drained it and tossed in butter, onions, and
garlic. I topped the pot with a lid to allow the vegetables to steam, and
looked to the sweet potatoes for my next move. Stabbing a fork into each circle
revealed that the orange rounds were ready. I set each chunk on a small plate
and garnished them with cinnamon, brown sugar, and butter. The mix of bright
oranges and browns made me think of fall memories with the friends who were about to sit down and
enjoy my meal, but first a few finishing touches. I dished out the colorful
pasta into a bowl, and placed the white chicken breasts on a plate.
My friends arrived on time and eagerly awaited my meal. Haubert, Marie,
and Sam were able to share this feast with me. As our eating commenced, it
became evident that my guests did not have the same tastes as me.
Haubert only ate the noodles leaving the onion and garlic to the cold. He
kindly explained, “I never like onions or garlic. I enjoy the flavor from them,
but I am not going to eat that.” Meanwhile, Sam tried explaining why she
doesn't eat sweet potatoes because she was force fed them as a child. “When I
was a young, my Uncle Ben always made sweet potatoes and he covered them in
marshmallows. I hated them and it sucked. Now I can’t stand them! They’re just
super gross and nasty.” Marie was the only compliant diner guest. Still, I
ended up eating their leftovers, with no complaints about the noodles seasoned
with soft onions and garlic, then the bright starchy rounds sweet with sugar
and butter. My stomach was satisfied with carbohydrates and starch, when I
remembered the protein.
Nobody had touched the white meat christened with rosemary when the
conversation started to wane. Their attention turned to a football game, or was
it basketball? I quietly took a bite of the chicken, a servant making sure her
king and queens would not die from poison. The butter and rosemary made it
taste fresh and the meat was cooked perfectly. I offered some to my friends and
no one got sick while eating it. In fact, the conversation completely
dissipated when Marie chimed it, “Katherine, this is like really good.” She
thought it was tender, with a slight flavor, nothing too overpowering. I was
very grateful for the positive review because I made a lot of mistakes.
Everyone agreed that the meal was very natural, especially for a college diet.
The unprocessed approach really showed off in my results. They even recommended
that I make this a weekly event, which I declined.
My alternate French persona failed to churn out a foie gras, yet I had
fun in the process of cooking my modest chicken dinner. I was happy to have a
positive experience while preparing the food, taking myself lightly, and then
sharing the meal with friends. Sometimes small expectations allow for the
enjoyment of the simple pleasures of life, and I think that's perfect.
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