So, being a second year is unique in several fundamental ways. It isn't just a distinction of degree, either. The surface aspects of the difference -- like knowing Grounds and knowing people and that sort of thing -- are entertaining, but in some sense they are inadequate in describing the sea-change we're talking about here. What I'm alluding to is a difference of kind, an alteration in the very substance of our lives -- such as, for example, cooking one's own food.
Now, having an apartment this year is just fantastic. I have, for example, a shower I share only with one other gentleman, so I am not required to carry every aspect of my hygienic life about with me in a filthy and awkwardly-shaped plastic bucket. I have carpet in my room and hardwood floors in the living room. I have a small balcony. When I get up early, I can watch the sunrise. All these things are pleasant and nice and make life easier and more satisfying, of course, but the center of the world now has become our wonderful, wonderful kitchen.
I consider myself to be a fairly competent, mediocre cook. I can make edible pasta with pretty good consistency. I can also use a George Foreman Grill like it's nobody's business. The thing I've discovered, though, is that there's a whole hell of a lot more to this "surviving" thing than I'd really thought before.
There are so many little details, like making sure not to lean on the stove after it's been on for a while and making sure that you actually have the food you're planning on cooking. This in itself is more complex than I imagined; for example, a frozen chicken breast requires, like, hours to be ready for cooking. I figured 20 minutes would do the trick.
Even the George Foreman Grill and I have been on poor terms lately. Usually we lead an idyllic existence, George and me. We take long walks through open fields, stopping occasionally for a delicious low-fat grilled food product, enjoying the day and the pleasures of marinades. Not now, though. We haven't spoken in days. We just go through the day pointedly ignoring each other and making snide remarks to other people.
Apparently, one is supposed to "clean" the damn thing shortly after one finishes using it. I think that's just unreasonable; when my hamburger is fresh off the grill, glistening wetly with deliciousness, I don't want to take time to scrub some stupid grill. So what if I had to take a steak knife to chip off the congealed horror that I found when I cracked my lil' electric buddy open three days later? "Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Machine" -- right. More like "Pansy Worthless Fat-Reducing Poophead."
But I'm beginning to get the hang of the heat and the food and all that jamboree, which is encouraging. This growing comfort seems to be a large-scale thing, too. One of my dear friends is just beginning to grapple with the arcane mysteries of the kitchen, and just the other night she whipped up a batch of healthful and delicious brownies. But there's a darker and more terrible issue at the back of this cheerful, superficial discussion of taste sensations, that dreadful specter that haunts the dreams of apartment-dwellers everywhere: the dishes. I'm fortunate, in that one of my apartment mates has a severe affinity for order, and so will inevitably do the dishes if we leave them in the sink long enough. This works out well for everyone; we carelessly drop our leavings wherever we please, and in a few days they re-appear in the cupboards, sparkling and stacked in decreasing order of size. Well, I guess I meant that it works out well for those of us who don't do the dishes.
There are those, however, who cannot face the gritty reality of the kitchen, the kind of people who don't like film noir and think that "The Maltese Falcon" is silly. Such people go elsewhere for their food. Now, most of us supplement our ostensible self-sufficiency with trips to the Corner and to the dining halls, but those who lack either the facilities or the propensity to explore our culinary skills are forced to turn entirely to one of these options. Perhaps the quintessential example of this single-minded nutritional focus can be found in those stalwarts I will refer to as the "Unlimiteds." These few, proud and natural aristocrats of U.Va. Dining, have been so ensorcelled by the siren call of the waffle machines and the ice milk and the puddin' that they have dedicated themselves to four years of Unlimited meal plans, relying on the palaces we call Newcomb and O-Hill for all their food-related needs. (And Runk, I suppose, but who goes there?)
In any case, my friends, even though the weather seems determined to exhaust us with an endless succession of cloudless 85-degree days, at least we can find a perpetual variety in the grand sweep of our lives here and the food we eat to keep alive -- as long as I don't have to do the dishes.
Connor's column runs bi-weekly on Fridays. He may be reached at sullivan@cavalierdaily.com.
Read More
It’s okay not to be okay
By Mai Hukuoka | 3 days agoWhether talking to a friend, a loved one or a professional, it is so necessary, and human, to need more than you can provide for yourself.
Taking a break at Tangerines Kitchen
By Charley Thomas | 5 days agoWhat the restaurant somewhat lacks in ambiance, it compensates for in tasty dishes and prompt service.
Virginia Policy Lab — a hub for student-led policy action
By Katherine Haden | December 9, 2024Students propose their own projects and collaborate with other members to research their issues of interest, brainstorm solutions and write policy proposals.
