The Perfect Meal Under the All-Seeing Eye

In my house dinner was a symbol for our family. Most nights were fend for yourself night, they said that it would toughen us up and make us more manly, but whenever one of my parents made dinner we all innately gathered around no matter where we were or what we were doing. Growing up my parents worked sometimes for more than forty hours a week just to provide the needs for two children. Needless to say, we would not go out to eat all the time, the most we went out was to the local McDonald’s. So dinning in was all the choice we had most nights and my parents were so exhausted from working that they did not have the energy to prepare a lavish meal, leaving us to eat whatever we could find. We would eat hotdogs, bologna, or peanut butter sandwiches, the goal was to eat just enough to survive to the next day. However, when someone accomplished something that was deemed important news my mom, in the beginning, would attempt to cook a meal that she most likely heard about on the morning news or from one of her “coworker friends”. So when the average routine was interrupted by the presence of a cook in the kitchen we would all migrate toward the unfamiliar aroma of welcome change. The three of us would separately ask the same question “What are you doing?” bewildered that someone felt the desire to actually do something for dinner. My mother would always roll her eyes and send us away without any sort of answer to our inquiry leaving us to dwell on the knowledge that we would have to come back again. The work of cooking was only half the labor involved in dinner, she then had to roam the house and tell us that we had to sit down together and, whether we liked it or not, eat the whole meal she made and listen to whatever the news was that prompted her to cook her husband and children a meal. Ninety-nine percent of the time her only news was that she wanted us to sit down together and share the events of the day, but with us kids’ getting the story of our day was like pulling teeth. The best part of dinner was hearing my father’s long-winded rants about what happened during his day and listen to joke about his coworkers
Even though the same types of comfort food, each meal was special and unique. Sometimes my parents played around with the idea of making a food schedule of what would be made on which day, but each time the floor fell out because when they would make the schedule something would come up and we would crave what wasn’t on the menu for the night. The allure of the meal was spontaneity of each and the schedule took all that away, the food seemed less flavorful and I became more of a chore to eat the food that I was always eager to have because of the sentiment behind it. Although it was not every week that they tried to plan a food schedule, every once in a while the idea would surface back up but it always got knocked back down after a while.
As I got older I decide that it might someday be in my best interest to be able to cook a meal. So one day I gathered up the courage to ask my father to teach me some of the meals that I always loved when he made them. So my father started to teach me how to make the basic meals, the right ways; hamburgers, the good kind of macaroni and cheese that doesn’t some in a box, and the breakfast favorite of homemade sausage gravy. At first, I was so intimidated by the feeling of my dad’s eye’s burning a hole in my back as he watched me try to remake the meals that he had perfected for his family over the years that I either burnt or undercooked, whichever would ruin the meal the worst, every part of the meal. The first meal that I tried to cook was just your basic hamburgers and macaroni and cheese, when you add the cheese to the macaroni you have to continue stirring the macaroni or the heat will burn the cheese and the whole meal will reek of the most disgusting burnt smell, so strong that you can taste it on your tongue. So with the macaroni completely ruined I thought that if I could cook a descent burger then I might just save the meal. The first time that I do anything I am overwhelmingly nervous about everything could go wrong, so in my panic I rushed the hamburgers flipping them too much, causing the part of the burger that actually got cooked to dry out, the very middle of the burger about the size of a quarter was pink, uncooked meat that was still a little runny with blood. Even in failure, there was a beacon of hope, the family gathered around and at least tried to force down the remnants of what started out with the potential to be a great meal. My father told me the “shit happens” and to learn from what I had done wrong the first time because I would have to cook breakfast and dinner the next day as well so I “better not screw up and ruin everyone’s day.” My father told me that cooking was like riding a bike because as soon as I get it I will wonder why it was so hard. He watched me cook the next day’s breakfast of sausage gravy. It is a simple combination of sausage and gravy made of milk and flour, the only hard part is getting the gravy at the right consistence. There were much fewer mistakes with breakfast than with dinner, but he stilled watched me with eagle eyes making sure to correct any mistakes to ensure that he wouldn’t miss anymore meals. He supervised the next couple of meals and one night he let go of the seat and let me ride on my own. While I was focused on the food he left the room, trusting that I could handle everything on my own.
Looking back now I can appreciate the significance of every meal and subtle lessons that came along with every home-cooked meal. Independence, self-reliance, and focus were all ingrained in the meal right along with each ingredient that made them up.