There are not many things that I miss about home. Sure, my Evanston apartment is not nearly as tidy as my house, I don’t have the luxury of driving around in my adorable Beetle and warmth is something I no longer take for granted. But all in all, the thing I miss the most while at Northwestern is a home-cooked meal – simmering Italian sauces, meat that falls off the bone with the slight prod of a fork and crispy apple pie with a gooey filling and cold ice cream melting over the edges.
My apartment’s nook, sometimes known as a kitchen, doesn’t really allow for concocting a dinner upon which my grandmother would put her stamp of approval. Eating juicy meatballs in a velvety red sauce over strands of perfect homemade pasta on a Sunday afternoon while sharing it with my family during a five-hour meal, is something that, frankly, I will never experience while away from home.
It’s not that I haven’t tried. Just last week, my roommate and I attempted to bake what we thought would rise into a sumptuous and decadent cake. Instead, our lousy oven forced the batter out of the sides of the pan, destroying our dessert and burning our hopes of a homemade treat. Instead, we went to Italian Coffee Bar, 940 Church St., and wallowed over our inedible cake with heaping scoops of caramel and almond fudge gelato.
Even before this most recent disaster, the results of my attempts at cooking have usually ended in either delivery from Merle’s #1 Barbecue, 1727 Benson Ave., for some old-fashioned comfort food or the long, frigid trek to Clarke’s, 720 Clark St., for classic diner fare. Bags of chocolate from White Hen, 817 Emerson St., and CVS, 1711 Sherman Ave., have become dessert staples after many a cake disaster.
Another experiment, homemade applesauce, turned to watery mush, albeit a tasty one. During these unpredictable recipe trials, the aged kitchen exhaust has caused the smoke alarm to go off more than once.
And now I realize the reason that the food I eat at home is so good – and usually without burnt edges and undercooked middles – is because it is made from the heart, made from love and not made with the worries of a looming Econ exam, last night’s mistake at The Keg or the mounds of laundry that haven’t been done since the beginning of the quarter.
Maybe the stresses of college life, my grungy “kitchen” with its unsturdy appliances and the lack of my grandma dishing out her epicurean wisdom (and seasoning things over my shoulder while I cook) all force my culinary endeavors to end in complete and utter failure. But in the end, it is okay. Because instead of five-hour Sunday meals with my family, I wind up sharing cartons of Joy Yee’s Noodles, 521 Davis St., with my family here. Sitting on a sofa with friends and picking away at mu shu chicken with chopsticks helps me appreciate the simple things.
And at the end of the day, whether it is hand-rolled pasta and meatballs or MSG-loaded crispy sesame chicken, as long as you’re sharing the meal with people who you care about, nothing else really matters.
