Juliette Roy
Jesse Miller
English 110
26 September 2017

The New Era; Favorite Food Essay

Normal. A sense of stability that I strive to achieve. Growing up was not easy. You would think that psychical features do not mean anything to a young kid, but unfortunately it did. In fact, my physical appearance meant so much to other children that my parents decided to put me into a clinical trial which involved the development, or reconstruction, of semi-real ears. The plastic they had sown to my body was barely a comparison. The surgeries were like clockwork. My body felt heavy every time, my immune system grew languid. Holding down food was a difficult task, unless it was the shitty Jell-O from the Boston Children’s Hospital. I dragged my comatose body down the dreary halls of the hospital. The words, “just one more time,” pierced through my heart every time my mother would mutter them. Eventually, the hospital had me leave their glorious hotel-like conditions. They sent me away with the bag full of vomit and my two tired, frustrated parents.
The days that followed were not any better. My stomach would heave while my body shook. Danielle, my sister, would squeal for attention while my parents did their best to comfort me. I could not, and would not eat for days. Eventually, I could not avoid the rumbling of my stomach. My chaotic family could never decide on what to eat. Being the youngest, I certainly had no say myself. There was only one thing we all agreed on, and that was beef macaroni and cheese. Beef macaroni and cheese is my favorite food because it was the constant that brought my family together. At the same time, it was the only sense of normality I had while going through a rough time. It was the one meal I could eat until my body healed from the obnoxious torture it endured.
After lying in bed, my dad would shout to me from the bottom of the stairs. I’d get up the second or third time he called. My geeky sister was normally knee-deep into Sims 2, her dark brown hair flying in front of her face as she launched herself towards the screen. I would help, or rather watch, my father cook. His gray hair was long, and framed his face deliberately. The relationship between my father and I was not exactly up to par, considering it sucked. Cooking was the one thing we had in common. “If you like to eat, you like to cook,” he would say. The beef he placed on the counter moo’d at me, I had wondered how long it took for the animal to be slaughtered. Garlic powder, onion powder, and my dad’s secret spice sat on the counter along with a box of Kraft Dinner, lactose-free milk, and butter. The room felt light and airy as my father gave me a warm smile. I did not see that smile very often. I could hear the cartoons blaring in the background, and my sister screaming upstairs. Jack, a white Maltese, circled around my legs and begged for attention. As we waited for the water to boil, we would discuss conspiracy theories and politics. I was lucky that he was acknowledging my presence.
After a couple of minutes, the water was at a full boil, spilling over the side and sizzling as it hit the granite countertop. The smell of the beef wafted around the room and engulfed the room. We would argue about what came first, the milk or the butter. The ratio is what decided the fate of the meal. During the argument, my mother walked in and suddenly all my anxiety dissipated. Her bright blue eyes lit up the room and were only made more beautiful by her baby-blue scrubs. I ran into her arms and gave her a tight hug, excited to finally feel some type of affection. Dad was not too good at that. He politely nodded towards my mother, his way of saying hello. Finally, it was time for dinner. I sat on the right of my mom, while my sister sat to the right of me. My dad sat on the opposite side of the table from us. The plates clanked together, which sent an unpleasant stimulus to my brain, causing me to cringe. The forks rattled as they were placed into the bowls, and the smell of cheese grew more intense as the table was set. I shoved a fork-full of beef macaroni into my mouth, and the bitter-salty taste rushed through me like a wave. The cheese to milk ratio was just right. My father has always been a great cook. The queasiness in my stomach from the surgeries began to subside. I had finally reached a decent level of happiness. The comfort I felt overwhelmed my fragile body. Normal, it’s not something that comes naturally to me. However, as my family sat at the wooden table I looked around and realized that normality wasn’t that important. The environment was light and cheerful, and I had never been so happy to see the gorgeous smile on my mother’s radiant face.
Today, I drive to college in silence as I think back to those moments. Sometimes I find myself craving that meal. It was a comfort food, and still has a special place in my heart. The smell of the hospital and sting of the surgeries remain, but I have grown stronger. The recipe of my dad’s famous pasta is the same, but the era and situation is much different. Now, I sit in my bedroom as my dad works 70 hours per week, still not giving me the time of day. My mother runs her own asthma wing in Springbrook Hospital, making my goal of becoming a doctor seem sub-par. No longer do I hear my sister drowning the Sims in the virtual pool, or setting them on fire by forcing them to ruin their meals. I sit in my room with my legs crossed, tasting the cheesy pasta I’ve come to love. I have altered the recipe to be my own, allowing the food to make new memories. Grey’s anatomy is blaring in the background, as Meredith and Derik try to save another patient. Nikoda, the husky that overtakes our house, lays on the floor waiting to be fed. I message my sister on Facebook and keep her updated on the latest scandals, since she can no longer pick from the bowl I’m eating from, or shove me off my chair and laugh as I tell on her. I no longer feel sick. I have goals, and I am older. I am not sick anymore.
As nostalgia hits, I realize what is important. I understand that I do not need to be perfect. These moments, a blip in time, were a safety blanket that no longer reside. I must create my own sense of calm and safety. A comfort food is meant to be enjoyed and remembered, but food should not be a distraction from the psychologic problems that are present. Overall, beef macaroni and cheese is my favorite food because it brought my family together, when it so rarely felt consistent. This consistency led to a feeling of normality. At one point I decided I wanted to be normal, but the truth is, I am anything but ordinary.

Recipe

(1) Box of Kraft Dinner

(1) Tablespoon of salt

(1) Tablespoon of pepper

(1) Package of meat

(1) Tablespoon of onion powder

(1) Tablespoon of garlic powder

(3-4) Tablespoons of lactose-free milk

(2) Tablespoons of butter 

(?) Secret spice

 

Relative Links

http://microtia.net/overview/

http://www.childrenshospital.org/

https://www.ea.com/games/the-sims/the-sims-2