Any Night

 “They just got done with their first round of fire-breathing!”

Tammer, Manny, and I clink bottles of Bell’s in celebration. The rest of guests cheer a big “woop” in agreement. Down go the drinks.

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

Slipping the key in the door I think about the last time I saw the place: four people are left in the room, Manny perched on the arm of the couch chatting with Lynn who is sprawled on the cushions below him. I am sitting in the bowl chair across from them amidst a few bottles of Bell’s Amber Ale and Doug has just come downstairs—he’s been “sex-iled.” The table is covered in bits of charred tinfoil, a menagerie of plastic baggies, and meat-juice stained plastic plates. I have also been kicked out of my room for the night and it is time to find another bed to crash in.

This morning things are pretty much the same as they were left. Bottles of Bicardi, Bells, and other various boozes are still littered about the living room and bowls of half-eaten veggies are still sitting on the table. It is enough of a mess that cleaning is needed, but not enough to dial the health inspector. It is a satisfying mess, one that reflects the frenzied, fervor, festive nature of those that are responsible for its creation.

This mess, this air of company, the crumbs of food here and there, the bottle strewn about, all of these are the ingredients to the perfect meal.

For me, the perfect meal boils down to four simple questions that evolve into a few complex answers: who, what, where, and when. Alright so they aren’t full questions, but achieve recognition of the integral ingredients of what makes up the quintessential dining experience. Who do you need to be dining with? What is being served? Where will it be? When will you have it?

The Friday night before the meal I had little to no idea what I was going to be preparing for my idea of the perfect meal. I puttered around with a few ideas in hopes of getting the creative juices flowing—taking notes from Micheal Pollan in his book The Omnivore’s Dilemna¸ trying to set rules out for myself in hopes of narrowing things down a bit. Maybe I should invite teachers, I think, those that have been my “Virgils” in my culinary explorations. Food Inc. and The Omnivore’s Dilemna had basically told me that corn was the Anti-Christ, should I try to stop using these in my cooking? Does my perfect meal not include corn? I’m but a wee college student with almost empty pockets, money sure as hell is going to play into it, right? So should the meal be expensive or cheap? Do I care about organic? Or local? Aren’t those pricy?

While these questions helped me narrow down what I could and couldn’t do, I still felt hopelessly confused as to what I wanted. While coming up with various rules could help me create a meal that could be calculated as “perfect,” nothing sat as mentally appetizing.

This led me to believe, and write, that there is more imperfection to the perfect meal than things that go right. I had no clue what I was doing when I went to bed the Friday before my eventual perfect meal, and was no more enlightened in what to do when I woke up Saturday morning. I guess I will grill, I think to myself. What is that? People are coming from out of town this weekend? Tell ‘em to come over. I wonder if there are any local butchers around and a quick Google search leads me to V & V Quality Meats, a Dutch family-owned butcher that gets all their meat from Michigan, Ohio, and Indiana, 10 minutes away. I jump in the car of one the visiting out-of-towners and was off.

Once there I found out that “buying local” wasn’t all that expensive. I had no idea how many people I would be feeding, so I perused—and was surprised. Meat was cheap—or at least cheaper than what I was led to believe. I was able to buy twenty burgers, sixteen hotdogs, buns, and assorted condiments (all locally produced) for $25. While Allison Vanorman (both the V’s in “V&V”) was good at her upsale, buying that much food was more of a precaution than a crazy, consumer buy. I had gotten a hunger for an event, to bring in people to eat, feast, and be merry. And hell, it was easy on the wallet as well.

We get home, start up the grill, and tell people to bring whatever they want. Well, I invited the people first, which just led to calls for “one more hot dog” and “one more burger” to be shouted out from inside. Guests just kept popping in, and it was wonderful. Everyone brought something to eat or drink, and the meal went from me and a few friends to around twenty guests and growling guts. The meal expanded out of my hands and into the many people making random things in the kitchen, mixing drinks, or going out to buy some-more food. Board games, drinking games, free sundaes at Hicks, and fire breathing followed. The food stopped being a food and became a launch pad for a night that was, in its entirety, perfect.

It was in the initial car-ride over that I think I jotted down what I thought the perfect meal was: “the perfect meal is a community people eating,” and now, I think I’d add “any night.”