College students have a reputation for working hard, playing hard and living off instant noodles.
The former two stereotypes are generally positive — something that people reflect fondly upon in their post-college years. So many alumni can recall stories of a time when their responsibilities were less demanding, and spontaneity dictated their evening plans, a far cry from the rigor of the typical workday. However, those tales of yore are almost certainly followed up with a caveat: “but I had no money and ate horribly.”
Although I have yet to crack the code for unlocking unlimited wealth, many of us can relate to the struggle of eating on campus.
Cooking in college is a challenge with regard to budget, time and, in many cases, skill, but those limitations are completely unrelated to what truly matters in the kitchen: passion and value.
The issue of students lacking the ability to fend for themselves in the kitchen without a dining plan is a key plot point in the college narrative. People often describe eating and cooking in college with extremes. From the fear-mongering about the “freshman 15” to the stereotype of the starving student who lives off black coffee and cold pizza, it seems that no college student can have a normal, balanced diet.
Even if people do not believe in these exaggerated notions of college life with regard to food, it is amazing how easy it is to neglect this part of our daily lives — especially if it is not something one deeply values.
Like many students at the Institute, I am not on a meal plan. I do not know if I fully understood what cooking every meal for myself actually meant when I made this decision. The logistical gymnastics of grocery shopping, meal prepping and figuring out the right portions of food to prepare can be overwhelming at times.
Cooking for one person, especially one very busy person, requires some level of planning and the acceptance that many meals will be a bizarre combination of leftovers. It is already exhausting being a college student — add a complicated dinner recipe into the equation, and the outcome is rarely a good one.
I did not realize how much I had forsaken food in the interest of time, or rather, my disinterest in grocery shopping, until my organic chemistry professor began to describe a chemical reaction in the lab in terms of cooking a packet of ramen.
Initially, I took offense at the suggestion that I only knew how to prepare noodles in the microwave. I wanted to tell my professor that I could also prepare a variety of frozen meals from Trader Joe’s, even if I do eat pasta at least once a week.
However, upon further reflection, I realized that I put substantially more thought and care into making a product in the lab than I did cooking in my kitchen, and as a result, I found it more fulfilling.
As someone who relies heavily on microwave oatmeal and salad kits, the suggestion that effort equates to gratification did not come easily to me. However, effort can take many forms.
If eating two granola bars for dinner (on multiple occasions) has taught me anything, it’s this: in order for cooking in college to be something that adds value to one’s life, some level of value has to go into it.
Value does not have to cost money; it simply has to cost some forethought. This could be enjoying a meal without a screen on or eating off a nice plate with metal utensils. Making the deliberate choice to create an atmosphere where eating is not a chore makes the college dining experience just a little bit better.
There is a reason why characters sharing food in books and movies is a symbol of mutual respect — meals are restorative and healing. The desire to make the eating experience better is enough passion to make the process of getting food on the table a little less dreadful and a little more joyful.
Share a snack with a friend, a peer or neighbor’s cat, and take a moment to revel in the chaos of campus. It is a rare moment in the scheme of life.