In Which a Meal is Attempted

It was Sunday night, and I was beginning to run out of these to fret about. The homework had been completed, my room was neat, for the most part, and my pack was ready for the classes tomorrow. Just as I began to think that I had nothing left to agonize over, I checked my account balance on Wachovia and nearly fell out of my chair.

It was clear that by the way my funds were rapidly diminishing that more ingenuity was required in meal planning other than to simply go out to eat every night. This conclusion came to me, as most of my more brilliant conclusions often do, while I was in the shower. Thus as I toweled myself off, I made a mental note to write an e-mail of desperation to my parents for meal advice, my mother for the recipes, my father for some somber dinner music, namely selected episodes of “This American Life.” I got this by the way of reply:

“Chicken, season with salt, pepper sauté in skillet with a little olive oil; meanwhile boil some pasta drain when tender (about 10 minutes) toss cooked chicken with pasta when finished cooking and squeeze lemon over. You can boil some broccoli and toss that in also. You could also add some butter and Parmesan if available,” was my mother’s sensible reply.

My father, on the other hand, advised me that the grubs and other insects indigenous to Germany contain more “protein pound-for-pound than the choicest steak in all the land.” I suspect the dashing rogue has been getting most of his meal ideas lately from Man vs. Wild, one of the two television shows he’ll watch. Note to any of those foolish enough to watch it with him: thought-provoking commentary as to the plight of the camera crew is not permitted. However, he did have the decency to provide me with the link to the TAL episodes.

Therefore I quickly compiled a list of the necessary ingredients to buy and readied the expedition to set forth after classes ended Monday. We would’ve gotten out sooner, but our projector is suspected to be possessed by evil spirits, and promptly shuts itself off every fifteen minutes. I announced my intentions to my companions while during the five-minute break, two of whom choked on their drinks when they heard, despite still being slightly groggy from the train ride back from Amsterdam. (The last man didn’t get back until 7 am, an hour and a half before class. His odyssey, which consisted of much frustration, swearing, and missed trains, took 13 hours)

I was steadfast in my purpose despite their doubts, just as Twain was steadfast in his attempt to ascend the Riffelberg. He and his company of 154 men accomplished that very feat after seven harrowing days in the Swiss wilderness. For a full account, consult A Tramp Abroad, chapter 38.

Yet I was alone (I had forgotten my list) when I set out for the Galeria Kaufhof, a major department store chain that usually has a full-stocked grocery on the bottom floor. I figured that, regardless of the fact that all the labels are in German, I could still manage to find the supplies I needed, which were:

Chicken-Hähnchen
Black pepper-Schwarz Pfeffer
Table salt-Tisch Salz
Olive oil-Oliveöl
Lemons-Zitrone
Butter-Butter
Broccoli-Brokkoli

All of these, I presumed were easily recognizable and would not be difficult to locate whatsoever, with my background as a legendary bagger. The chicken and the lemons were quickly discovered, although German lemons have about the same shape and consistency of spoiled potatoes. Broccoli and butter proved trivial. Next I set about the pasta, which was also easily found, and then I set about the salt and pepper.

It was at about this point that I realized there is no real table salt in Germany, nor is there pepper. There are seasonings and spices and boxes upon boxes of all the different kinds of salt you could ever imagine, but not the kind we are accustomed to. I must have trekked around the small seasonings pavilion enough to log 47 sea miles. There was pasta salt, salt for French fries, salt for pizza, salt especially for Italian peoples, and even the highly coveted Australian Lake Salt, but no salt that looked generic enough to be safe for consumption.

The same went for the pepper. There was green pepper, there was white pepper, and then there was the type of black pepper that hasn’t been ground at all, that comes in little balls the size of grape shot, designed to punish the consumer for buying the accursed product by having him meet an unfortunate end by choking to death. Again I went through the same ritual as with the salt, walking around and around again, my own personal Jericho. Finally I managed to locate a small flask of black pepper hiding behind the white that looked like it might be what I needed. Having obtained my prize, I quickly abandoned the field to the enemy, picking up two liters of Coca-cola on my way out the door.

After a narrow confrontation with some overzealous Mormon missionaries from Utah on the streetcar platform, which I cleverly evaded by claiming to be Bulgarian, I legged it homewards and stashed my hard-fought provisions in the pantry. The first stage done, I settled down to write and do homework that afternoon while a violent windstorm raged outside. The wind whistling around the cracks in our windows nearly drove me mad, but I managed to stave off insanity by stifling it with The Best of the Chieftains.

Around 6:45 preliminary preparations were primed. All cooking utensils were washed twice for further safety: two pots, one skillet, one sharp knife for the chicken (the cutting of which Katy preferred to leave the room for. Apparently I don’t look particularly in command of the situation while handling pointy objects), one serrated for the broccoli, bread, and potato-esque lemons. (It should be mentioned here, as it was during the preparation time, that, unbeknownst to many people, Stonewall Jackson used to suck on that particular variety of citrus.)

So I fired up the boilers and the endeavor was underway, the two pots simmering in the back, the skillet sizzling in the fore. The broccoli water was ready first, so I quickly threw them in without hesitation. It was smaller than the other pot, and I had some difficulty cramming them in all the way, but with the clever application of a paring knife and a plunger used in the facility of a crude rammer, the feat was achieved.

Next came the pasta. It was the only group I was intimately acquainted with, so I left it to it’s own devices with the confidence that they wouldn’t get into too much mischief. Meanwhile the olive oil on the skillet was in the process of mutinying. The addition of the chicken speedily quelled this rebellion, and soon all was nearing completion. My cohorts looked on in trepidation, yet manned the fire alarm with such calm composure that it brought tears to my eyes. To have friends who stand by you in such times of fierce adversity, now that is something worth living for.

Unfortunately I had forgotten that unless in the cases of broth, soup, or goulash, broccoli is not to be boiled for more than two minutes. I glanced desperately towards the clock, then bellowed out for someone to remove the steaming pot forthwith, and my henchfolk carried out the command with alacrity. At this point there were fires and catastrophes breaking out fore and aft, the pasta boiling over, mates falling left and right from the yellow jack, the chicken refusing the seasonings without the proper tariff forms, and the butter just melting away from sheer lack of composure. Yet I steered us straight and true through all vile tribulations, warping our way narrowly through the stays, clapping the granite-like baguette the bosun contributed in the microwave with heaps of butter so as to drown the wretch, and tossed the ingredients together while masterfully adding lemon, squeezed afresh, to the amalgamation.

And thus, although the cruel winds beset us at times, and it often felt as though all were lost, we fought hard and won through to claim the prize: the first home-cooked meal in a foreign land. I slept well that night despite a near-fatal attack of the hiccups.