Caleb, Dorm Chef

I turn the stove on. Click, click, click, and the blue flames grow. I unscrew the olive oil’s lid, pour it in the pan, wipe a stray droplet with the towel tossed over my shoulder. Soon David, Mike and Jonas would come home, so there was no time to lose.

The pantry is full, as always. Every Sunday we pool our money, share our cravings and make the long journey to Cart, the cheapest grocery store in town. Jonas, who basically lives in the gym and does hammer curls in his sleep, carries three bags while the rest of us share the other two. I grab the two-kg penne pack and the jar of tomato sauce, and balance a few containers of dried herbs between my chest and arms. They’ll needing all the fuel they can get.  

The oil had started to fizz, so I drop in the red onions, ready on the cutting board. I used to cry when I diced them at the start of the year, but now they do nothing to me. The same happened to essay deadlines and failed exams: not a single tear now that it’s November. I sprinkle the seasonings while sautéing the onions left and right: chilli, garlic, salt, pepper and tomato flakes. Because tomato sauce isn’t enough tomato: the boys love tomato. Sweet, tangy, just the right balance for the rest of the dish. I smile at the thought of pouring sauce from the jar later on. It’s nothing like ketchup, which I used to squirt on top of my unsalted pasta on my first few days here. There’s still a droplet on the side wall commemorating that dumb habit, and I only noticed it weeks after it happened. By now even water can’t rinse it off. I should really look into it, there must be a way to clean it out.

The growing smell emanating from the mix of aromas reminds me that I only have fifteen minutes left. Time to add in the chicken.

Our fridge is cramped with all the meat and vegetables we had bought for the week. It’s only Monday. And on Mondays, I’m the only one home early. I come home early every day actually, while the other three have alternating presences between four and eight. It’s not like I can work on my art anywhere else, since all my stuff’s in my room. David needs to pass the CFA, and Mondays are dedicated to cramming in the library. He had found the perfect spot: right between the copier machine, which provides an easy distraction when a good-looking person walks by, and the wall, on which he tapes a post-it each time he goes. It spells grind harder and he has to re-stick it every fifteen minutes. As long as it works for him.

I pull out the plastic bowl from the second row of the fridge, careful not to press it on the cracked shelving. Of course it was Jonas who had heaved it up the stairs during Introduction Week, but he didn’t do it alone. His dad had driven him and his stuff down South for five hours, and when they got there neither rested until his room was ready to go. Not like I had high standards for dads, or any at all, but he’s clearly a good one.

Before pulling the chicken strips out of the marinade I had made last night, I pass my hands under the faucet. The last thing I want is for all of us to get a stomach bug.

One was already tough, as we figured out at Halloween. Mike had gone to a party, just like he did on all Saturdays, Fridays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, but this time instead of washing down his bladder with bottles of beer only, he added candies into the mix. He didn’t even finish the huge bag probably handed out to everyone there, so upon his arrival at 4AM, he dumped all of it on our coffee table. Gummy worms, sour tongues, caramel bars, chewing gum… It was meant to be a gift from Mike’s drunk self, but none of us touched it after we saw what it did to him. Groaning on the couch for three days.

No one ever got sick eating my meals, so far.

I put the pasta into the salted water, which had finally come up to a boil. On the other burner, the chicken sizzles in the oil. I look at it, stomach growling. Just ten more minutes, I need to distract myself. I had grown more or less used to the waiting time and all the patience that cooking takes. Well, the patience I need for my simple recipes at least. It’s a different kind of patience than the one I need for painting: I never feel hungry for a finished piece, I just brush away until there’s nothing else I can possibly do. Because finishing isn’t exactly the goal, it’s the painting part that makes me want to pick up the brush. Maybe I need to channel my inner artist, like they say, while I cook. Because the more patient I get, the browner the chicken gets, and the more the flavours mix together. But it’s hard not to get hungry.

What I cook entirely depends on my roommates. Jonas needs the most protein, so meat or beans are go-to’s. And none of us are vegetarian. Then there’s David, who needs long-lasting energy, which is why we always have a bowl of nuts on the table by the TV. If someone else is home while I cook, we sit at the table with two sets of cutting boards and munch on roasted almonds and walnuts while dicing the veggies. Snacking before dinner, I know. But David’s brain must appreciate the nutrients, I guess.

And Mike needs, well… Something comforting. All three of them do.

***

“I miss my mom’s cooking,” Mike had once confessed during the credit rolls of Deserted Streets, chomping on what was left of a pizza crust. “It was the shit.”

“And now you’re eating shit,” Jonas had replied, tossing his own crust into Mike’s pizza box.

There was a moment of silence, and Mike paused the countdown on our screen, luring us into another episode.

“I’m serious, I’m so tired of PB&J. I never thought I’d be tired of eating PB&J.”

“I hear you,” said David, “There’s only one way I know how to cook chicken breast. I’m basically living off protein shakes at this point.”

“At least we have takeout,” I said with a smile, “right?”

An angel passed, as mom would say. Then Mike spoke again.

“My mom made the best lasagna in the country. During game nights? Heaven.”

“Turkey,” David said, “was my mom’s game. Didn’t matter if it was the middle of July, she went through the trouble of dealing with the oven for three hours. And then she cooked the potatoes in the gravy, and… oh my god. That was real food.”

“My parents alternated,” said Jonas, “and dad’s the fried rice expert.” My mouth watered at the idea of homemade fried rice.

“And woks,” he quickly added. “But the best part was that we could all come together at a proper table, with nice plates and chopsticks.”

The other two nodded.

“Forks for me,” Mike specified, “but I get you. It’s not the same now.”

They were on their own now. I had always been that way, with mom working long hours and all. I had always eaten out of cardboard boxes and plastic containers, and never really thought of it. In September I didn’t feel like I was missing anything.

But no wonder they missed all of it. Looking forward to it after a tiring day. Taking the first crunch or spoonful, or pull with your molars. Sharing your wins and losses for today. Seeing the empty plates around you at the end, getting a warm, fuzzy feeling from it. It would be hard to live without it now.

The timer rang just as the lock twisted in the door. Mike’s on time, as always.

We share a smile.

“Smells delicious,” he says, “should I set the table?”