Any Night (Revision)

A few friends and I clink bottles of beer together in celebration. The rest of the guests cheer a big “woop” in agreement. Down go the drinks.

I wake up the next morning on someone else’s couch in someone else’s house, no blanket, perhaps missing an article of clothing or two, and not quite sure what put that crick in my neck. Pulling on a shirt and jacket both smelling of charcoal smoke I figure it is about time to head back to the source of the wonderful buzz in my head and the comforting warmth in my gut.

I tried to prepare for this, but up until its occurrence I was was oblivious as to what it was. Micheal Pollan spoke of the “perfect meal” in his book, The Omnivore’s Dilemna, as knowing the full karmic consequence of everything that was available at your table. To be involved in the hunting, gathering, cooking, and consumption of the meal is no easy feat, and definitely brings one closer to the meaning of ‘you are what you eat’—and the sonofabitch pulled it off, too. However I had no composite bow available to me, so murdering the bunny rabbit in the grove behind my house wasn’t an option.

On a deadline with only a day more to create the perfect meal, I had made more progress figuring out what I didn’t want to do then what I did, resulting in a belief that there is more imperfection to the perfect meal than anything else. I had no clue what I was doing when I went to bed the Friday before, and was no more enlightened in what to do when I woke up Saturday morning. But before my neuroticism led me to use Pollan’s book as kindling for whatever meal I pulled out of my ass, I got a text:

“Hey, we’re on our way. Perhaps 1 hour 30. Can we drop our shit off at your place?”

A spark--both in the oven and for the conversation above the dinner table---was what I needed, and out-of-towners provided. Unfortunately I have little-to-no skill when comes to the culinary arts, save one area—the grill. It can feed a whole bunch of people and whatever you stick on top will cook--or at least be burnt and edible.

Various moral meanderings had led me to the possibility of ordering local meat to feed the horde of people to come. Local communication was developing in and out of the food, between the eaters and the meat, and the urge to feed my guests with a little bit of their home was a cannibalistic treat I was eager to indulge. Simply put, local food just added to strength of my community of eaters.

To find your butcher, Google search. Finding the ‘organic,’ or ‘local’ food in your town seems to have more to do with “knowing a guy,” more akin to a mobster connection than grocer, or “I found them through [insert foodie name here].” Just clatter the word onto your search engine. My perusal led me to V&V Quality Meats. Buying local doesn’t have to be a clique activity. 

V&V Quality Meats: barn-like building, white tile, clear cases where the product is displayed. I arrived there by car courtesy of a visiting out-of-towner. The butchery 10 minutes outside of Kalamazoo is owned by the Vanormans, a Dutch family, who blazon the motto “GOD GIVES US OUR STRENGTH AND HOPE” behind the counter in red and blue letters.

Young Allison Vanorman, daughter of the family and cashier of the shop, caught me on the upsale. With a haul of two dozen burgers running at $12, 16 hotdogs for $3.30, an assortment of condiments, and buns, I certainly had hearty bundle of food for my gaggle of guests. Quantity aside, it only cost $26 dollars for the haul--all produced in Michigan, Ohio, or Indiana. Ms. Vanorman reassured me of the ease of buying local foods, and dissuaded me from the myth of its exorbitant price.

Before getting home, I realized we needed something rather important: charcoal. Normally I use a bag of “cowboy brand” stuff that is basically just burnt up wood-- but I left it outside over the winter. The grizzled cowboy atop a bucking bronco printed on the brown bag had turned into a droopy horse hand riding what looked like a Labrador with mange. Mejier-brand charcoal it was.

Grilling wasn’t as soggy. While snow trickled out of the sky and onto the patio, the flurry of guests was more furious. Knocking my door around like the gates to an Old-western saloon, every guest brought a little something: a 6-pack of Bell’s, a bowl of macaroni, spontaneous salad in the kitchen, some peppers to be tossed on the grill. One raided our spice drawer and treated the burgers with a concoction of lemon zest and something red that made a pleasant burn in everyone’s mouth.

All the while I was stuck outside, confined to the ever-vigilant duty of grill-master. I experienced most of from sending in/receiving more meat or shouts and laughs that would slither out the windows and doors. But before I began to wonder who was supposed to be the one hosting this get-together, I reunited with the guests who had sprawled about my living room playing drinking games, and helped them devour our feast.

Slipping the key in the door I think about the last time I saw my place: I am sitting in the bowl chair across from a few friends lounging drunk on the couch amidst empty bottles of beer and one of my roommates has just come downstairs—he’s been “sex-iled” (a fate we’d share.)The table is covered in bits of charred tinfoil, a menagerie of plastic baggies, and meat-juice stained plastic plates.

This morning things are pretty much the same as they were left. It is a satisfying, perfect –in its imperfection—mess, one that reflects the frenzied, fervor, festive nature of those responsible for its creation.