Perfect Meal Revision

On Saturday at noon hundreds of shoppers came out to the supermarket, many stocking up on chips, dip, and beer in preparation for Superbowl parties the next day. I, too, was preparing for the big day, planning to make homemade pizza—more sustainable than delivery—and cookies for friends who knew nothing about football. "Is that when everyone fills out those charts?" Becca asked me, confusing the NFL Playoffs with College Basketball's March Madness. I pretended to be surprised by their ignorance, and they pretended to listen when I corrected them or taught them about the rules. It was agreed that they would sit with me while I watched the game, cheer when I cheered, boo when I booed, but otherwise focus on their own knitting projects. My hyper-enthusiastic mother and brother would be screaming at their televisions elsewhere, but at least I would be surrounded by other people I loved.
At Meijer, the local superstore, carts creaked along the aisles, soulless drones behind them. "Pardon me," I would say, narrowly avoiding cart collision. No response, no head nod, no eye contact. Speakers piped out advertisements instead of music, but no one seemed to notice or care. "Attention Meijer customers," but they looked through me to scan the products on the wall: Enriched flour, unbleached flour, whole wheat flour, organic flour. What did it even mean? My guide, Gabriella, was sore from ab workouts the night before and had retreated to my car. I tried phoning for help but Meijer is a cell phone dead zone. Where each product came from, how it was processed, and which one was best for me was a mystery. The carts behind me expected me to move along, and Gabriella was waiting for me outside. Whatever. I decided to grab what was on sale and get the hell out of there.
Back at the car, Gabriella was bawling, her tears a murky purple from her mascara. "I just got off the phone with 911, they're bringing an ambulance. I think my appendix burst." All I could think to say was, I hope you're wearing cute underwear, but I knew better than that, so I rubbed her back and told her it would be okay.
Three hospital visits later, I was watching the first quarter of the game in the waiting room in Bronson, discussing penalties and drives with strangers who didn't look through me.

"But Alexis, your perfect meal. The game. Go home," a heavily-drugged Gabriella half-groaned, half-slurred to me.

"Don't be silly, lady, it wouldn't be perfect without you."

With my only notion of "homemade" pizza as Jack's—or Red Baron, if I was lucky—I had asked Gabriella to help me prepare my meal. When Gabriella was well enough to eat again, we started preparing the pizza. My idea of a perfect meal involved as little planning, and as few rules, as possible. Stressing out isn't fun, and not having fun isn't perfect. No one else in the house was recruited or required to help, and there were no rules about whether only those who helped make it could eat it, because everyone was welcome to a piece. Helpers came and went as they pleased, and though I had only planned on pizza and cookies, Becca and Maddie made sweet potato fries to share (baked, not fried, a good choice on their part), Emily brought mushrooms to put on half the pizza, and Gabriella shared her Peanut Butter Tracks ice cream. The pizza itself was like a Margarita Pizza, with fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil, but with red sauce rather than white because red sauce tastes better. Surprise mini-courses appeared when someone decided to open a bag of Doritos, extra mushrooms were eaten raw, and leftover mozzarella, tomato, and basil turned into pseudo-Caprese salads eaten with fingers off the juicy cutting board. We ate enough raw cookie dough to consider it another course, but don't tell my mother.
By the end of the night, my face hurt from smiling. We had sung what lines of Mary Kate and Ashley's, "Gimme pizza! P-I-Z-Z-A" we knew, and used the "put it on a pizza" joke (from later in the episode) enough that even Emily and I were sick of it. By the time we put the pizza in the oven to cook, it was past eight, and we were all very hungry. Regardless, we danced and sang and laughed for 25 minutes, at which point decided to "eat that damn pizza whether it's done or not."
Everyone said that the pizza was good, but I knew that it was pretty mediocre. The mozzarella hadn't melted completely, the juice from the tomatoes had spilled over the sides, and the toppings fell off the bottom crust after the second bite (Emily pointed out, however, that it provided more opportunities to "put it on a pizza"). Okay, maybe we weren't sick of the joke just yet. Although there was a table available, we ate on the futon, the back of the couch, and the arm of the chair. No rules, remember? The cookie, too, was shaped and cut like a pizza—a last minute decision—and thrown into a bowl of Peanut Butter Tracks ice cream. The Ghirardelli chocolate chips, the expense of which was justified by their high marks in sustainability, made the cookie. "The final course is cuddling!" I proclaimed. So after half an hour or so of settling our stomachs in a cuddle-puddle, they returned to their homework and I cleaned the kitchen to give myself time to reflect on the evening. Feeling grateful that I attended an institution where cooking a meal was an assignment, I realized that I would pay $42,000 a year just for these people.