The perfect meal
When it comes to the topic of the "perfect meal" everyone has an opinion, and that is perhaps what makes it both such an interesting and such a difficult topic. The perfect meal for one person might be unappealing and inedible to another. To one person, the perfect meal might not even be food dependent, but is be more affected by with whom and where it is eaten. Other people might feel that the food is the only part that matters. So when challenged to make my own perfect meal, my concern was not so much about making a perfect meal, but deciding in the first place what the hell I consider to be a perfect meal.
It came down to two qualities. The first involved the food I would have to make, and in this regard it was easy enough to decide. The food would have to put forth a variety of flavors and at the same time be very satisfying. It would have to be first a meal that left you full and warm inside. Perhaps most important of all though, I would have to make it all myself. Secondly, as for the feel of the meal itself, and who I would eat it with, that took a little more thought. I grew up with a family that practiced a wonderful tradition: we ate together as a family. For me, there couldn’t be a lot of fuss and showiness. It had to be a simple meal, with the family, in a casual manner.
With this much decided, next up was the menu. I chose to ignore the synergy between foods. I am well aware that some foods go better with others; I just don’t particularly care about that myself. Food is food is food. With this in mind, I picked four very different and very good foods to have together.
The first choice was easy. Bread Machine bread. I grew up with the stuff, its seductive scent, and wonderful fluffy warmth. Now it would be my turn to make it. Speaking of childhood favorites, my mind quickly turned to broccoli with melted cheese. This mix had been a long-standing favorite of mine, and also was healthy! Halfway there, I needed now only a dessert and a meat. Picking which meat I would use for this meal was complicated. I’m a great lover of meat, and a self-proclaimed carnivore. Would it be tender pork chops, or simple and delicious chicken legs? There were far too many choices, so I decided to go in another direction: fish. With fish it’s much easier, since I really only like tuna and salmon, and salmon won out in the end. One more item: dessert. For the longest time I’ve enjoyed making dessert. Be it cookies or cake, it was one of the best parts of baking for me. When I found out we had a box of red velvet cake, I dropped the idea of making chocolate cake to try the red velvet, something I’d never made before.
The menu was set. I know many may now look at this menu and wonder, just what the hell I’m doing making salmon and broccoli, or bread and cake. They don’t seem like they’d fit, but to me, they all sound good, and that’s all that matters. But a bigger question now loomed before me. It’s been a good while since I last cooked. Would I be able to make this meal?
Once Friday came around, I rolled out of bed and got to work answering that rather scary question. It started early, as the bread machine bread takes a while to make the bread. Now I happen to be lucky, I live a mere mile and half away from the college I attend, so it took a single phone call home and I got a ride from my father. His warm smile and friendly words greeted me, and we chatted all the way home about classes, homework and just life in general. Arriving at home, I had a few hours before classes started up back at college, so I went about figuring out how to do this. For the longest time I’d considered the bread machine to be some big, complicated process. From what little I knew, making bread by hand was far from simple; and even with the aid of a machine, as in this case, I thought it would be rough. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Much to my delight and enjoyment, it became a simple task. My dad gently outlined for me that all that was needed was to put flour, yeast, water, salt, oil, and a few other things into the machine and then leave it to bake. I felt a touch of disappointment that it wasn’t as complex as I thought, but that was easily overcome by the calming simplicity of it. I liked that it wasn’t some large arduous task to make such good bread, but instead an act that merely required a few moments, the right ingredients, and the will to do it.
Returning then to college, I went through classes, my mind back on the bread churning away in the machine, being baked to perfection. That had gone smoothly enough, but I was worried about the other three components. Broccoli can be touchy, and gross when over-cooked. Salmon burns easily, and I’d never attempted red velvet cake. I would soon confront all three. Needless to say, I was rather distracted that day in class, my mind on to many things.
Classes ended and I phoned home once more, ready to go see the verdict on my bread. Would it work? Did it somehow go wrong? A jittery nervousness descended on me, and then was banished upon returning home as I pulled a fresh, warm, fluffy loaf of bread from the bread machine. It was perfect. One part down, three to go.
The cake came next. The mix required the usual suspects: eggs, water, and oil. I don’t use a set of beaters to mix batter; I do it by hand with a spoon. It takes longer, but just feels right. It’s while I’m mixing that I see something unusual. For those who haven’t had red velvet cake before, it’s called “red” velvet for a reason. I looked down and was stirring a mixture that was an unsettling blood red. Into the pan the batter went, and into the oven the pan went. Better to not ponder on just what it looked like at that point. It took an hour and half for the cake to bake properly, our oven is slowly dying, and lacks the energy it once had. What came out of the oven though was a fluffy, incredibly rich, dark red cake, which more than made up for its initial appearance.
It was while the cake cooked that an odd feeling came over me. There was something very different about me being the chef now, being the one cooking for my family. I’d spent years growing up and being fed by my parents, now to be the one in the role of chef, felt a little odd. But despite that, it felt good to. I had a warm sense of pride, in that now it was my turn to provide for the family, and I hopped I would do it well.
The salmon was easier, thankfully, and less disturbing then the cake. My mom stepped in to help direct it, her words stern, but nice as she guides me through the act. I plopped the salmon down into the pan, lathered it with olive oil, broiled it for ten minutes, poked at it and cut it a bit, and then cooked it for another ten or so. It was by far the simplest part of the meal to make. Yet, as it was baking away in the oven, my thoughts turned back to all the meals I’d ever had at the college cafeteria. Café meals often fill you up, and certainly don’t taste bad, but they are oddly unsatisfying in the end. There’s something missing, and I think it’s both a lack of quality, and a lack of pride for what you’re eating there. Where as already, this meal to me is something to be very proud of.
The broccoli, on the other hand, was a bit more interesting. First, having washed and separated the pieces, I needed to cut and chop it into manageable bits. Being the adventurous soul that I am, I found the butcher’s cleaver and went to work. Despite the overkill of using that knife, it actually worked quite well, requiring only one or two quick chops. The cut broccoli was then tumbled down into the pan with some water, covered and left to cook. Timing here was essential my parents informed me, and at the critical moment, I pulled the pan from the heat. Now a rich, vibrant green, the broccoli was drained and put back into the pan, then mixed around with copious amounts of cheese and margarine. The meal was ready.
Everyone was gathered then. just my parents and I, with my sister away at a cake decorating class. She’s getting quite good at this art, and is able already to make beautiful flowers of icing. The meal certainly didn’t disappoint. The bread was incredibly fluffy on the inside, and crunchy/crumbly on the outside. The salmon came out wonderfully, flavorful and soft, unburned in most places. Finally the broccoli mixed well with the cheese, making a tasty combination. Last comes the cake, which is beautiful both in color and taste now. Thick, incredibly rich, and with an indiscernible taste unlike anything i'd ever had before. it requires little with it. No meal from the café could ever compare to this one. And it occurs to me no one might have ever tried these four items together, because of the so-called synergy of food, and these people would be missing out. That is why I chose four drastically different things for this meal, because you never know until you try, just how well it might come out.
Sitting back, very full, very satisfied, and very happy, I question myself. Is this what I wanted it to be? Was this meal indeed perfect? By the criteria I set it certainly was. Yet, more importantly for me, perhaps than any of the criteria, I’d made it myself. I found then, sitting and resting after this perfect meal, that what made it more than just a good meal was that I’d made it myself and shared it with my family. To top it all off to, my parents both loved it as well. That pride in having managed to cook an entire meal, with the instruction and help of my parents to be sure, but still, to have cooked it myself, was wonderful. Between that, and the wonderful feel of having successfully mixed four odd dishes together into one awesome meal, this was by far, the perfect meal.
