Spring Break
A Mod-ern diet
by Rachel Pfeffer
Features | 9/11/07
Posted online at 7:24 PM EST on 9/10/07
/ Last updated at 2:57 AM EST on 9/10/07
When I found out that I'd be living in the Foster Mods for my last year at Brandeis, I was overjoyed. It was as close to living in the real world as I could get before having to deal with a landlord. Living in a Mod means freedom, walking across a sometimes dangerous street, and, above all, a kitchen.
It was the latter that quickly turned sour for me. Over the summer I had dreams of baking Mexican casserole or, as I like to call it, Mexican Surprise. Pans full of spinach frittata were but a twinkle in my eye, and I could almost reach out and touch the steaming apple pies cooling on the windowsill of my brain.
And then I realized I wasn't capable of any of these culinary daydreams. Still, I figured I could rely on my friends to cook for me. I come out on top when a suitemate decides to bake a Funfetti cake. Since we decided to buy our own food to ban any confusion as to who pays for what, I am responsible for finishing an entire loaf of bread before it goes moldy. It's a tall order.
Sometimes, though, I get to indulge in a dinner that someone else is cooking. One especially baking-inclined suitemate experiments with all types of pasta, sauces and meats. After a week or so of mooching off these meals, I started to feel guilty and decided to take matters into my own hands. While she would eat spaghetti and meat sauce, I microwaved half a mug of baked beans. Delicious baked beans, mind you, but nonetheless, I felt like a regular Oliver Twist, watching my suitemate feast upon a giant bowl of pasta, peas and sauces galore while I blew on my bubbling beans, dreaming of better times.
I balanced out my meal with a sandwich of sliced turkey, broken slices of muenster cheese and one too many bread and butter pickles, which I have become determined to finish after foolishly buying a gigantic jar. Sometimes I just sit myself down and eat until I'm convinced that there is a noticeable dent in the volume of pickle slices. Just one week into school, these seemingly innocent pickles are the bane of my existence, taunting me with their never-ending abundance. And try as my housemates might to convince me that the pickles will last a lot longer than my bread, I still have nightmares of them losing their crunch, being totally unfit for a sandwich and succumbing to a horrific squeaky softness.
It was the latter that quickly turned sour for me. Over the summer I had dreams of baking Mexican casserole or, as I like to call it, Mexican Surprise. Pans full of spinach frittata were but a twinkle in my eye, and I could almost reach out and touch the steaming apple pies cooling on the windowsill of my brain.
And then I realized I wasn't capable of any of these culinary daydreams. Still, I figured I could rely on my friends to cook for me. I come out on top when a suitemate decides to bake a Funfetti cake. Since we decided to buy our own food to ban any confusion as to who pays for what, I am responsible for finishing an entire loaf of bread before it goes moldy. It's a tall order.
Sometimes, though, I get to indulge in a dinner that someone else is cooking. One especially baking-inclined suitemate experiments with all types of pasta, sauces and meats. After a week or so of mooching off these meals, I started to feel guilty and decided to take matters into my own hands. While she would eat spaghetti and meat sauce, I microwaved half a mug of baked beans. Delicious baked beans, mind you, but nonetheless, I felt like a regular Oliver Twist, watching my suitemate feast upon a giant bowl of pasta, peas and sauces galore while I blew on my bubbling beans, dreaming of better times.
I balanced out my meal with a sandwich of sliced turkey, broken slices of muenster cheese and one too many bread and butter pickles, which I have become determined to finish after foolishly buying a gigantic jar. Sometimes I just sit myself down and eat until I'm convinced that there is a noticeable dent in the volume of pickle slices. Just one week into school, these seemingly innocent pickles are the bane of my existence, taunting me with their never-ending abundance. And try as my housemates might to convince me that the pickles will last a lot longer than my bread, I still have nightmares of them losing their crunch, being totally unfit for a sandwich and succumbing to a horrific squeaky softness.
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