Around the Kitchen Counter

I didn’t have time to cook salmon, so I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner. Then I went to bed.

Every morning (sometimes afternoon) when I opened my eyes, my first thought would be, “Where the hell am I—oh, yeah.” This on-campus apartment that I sleep in. That’s where I was. I didn’t consider it home; I didn’t think of myself as living there. Even my dorm last year, the one that I tried hard to always be away from, felt more like a home.

Life had been weird here back at school these past two weeks. Each day followed the same routine:

Roll under my 200-thread count sheets and out of extra-long twin-sized bed, sit at my metal-framed wooden desk with a wooden finish, check my messages on Facebook and emails on Gmail, pick off the ants that find their way onto my arm, slam my fist on the ants crawling on my desk, try to pretend that tingling sensation going up my ass hole is NOT another fucking ant, eat a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios with 2% lactaid milk, brush my teeth with Crest Extra Whitening tooth paste (which clearly does not work), shit out dead ants, shower shampoo soap towel-dry moisturize, grab my backpack stuffed with two Five-Star notebooks, and head out.

The UCI bus shuttle stopped right outside my apartment. I’d sit down on the bench, pull out my iPod, find a good song, put it on repeat, and let it play. In the morning, the air would be cool and crisp, but no matter what hour of the day it is, the sun would always be there to beat down on my face with scorching heat. I baked while waiting for the bus, which would always be crowded with students heading to class. I’d seek out an empty seat next to someone who also plugged their ears with earphones—guaranteed no interaction for the entire ride. Just the way I wanted it.

Go to class, lecture, discussion, whatever depending on the day. I had been having trouble wrapping my brain around anything. Lecture hall so-and-so, room number whatever—I was there only because that was where my schedule told me I had to be.

The only time during the day I had really been living was when I was dancing. That, unfortunately, is not the focus of this entry, because this entry is only supposed to bring your spirits down.

After leaving some dance workshops, or a parking garage where I was learning some dance sets, or the gym where I was practicing some dancing, I would walk back to my apartment. It’d be dark and late out, but at least I could enjoy the cool air without baking. The song on my iPod would be the same song I set on repeat earlier in the morning; the only change to what I was hearing would be the sound of my stomach growling.

You know how light floods into a dark room? Well, I felt like when I stood in the lit up hallway right outside my apartment, struggled with my key in the god damn lock, and finally got the door to open, dark shadows would instead flood from inside my apartment and out into the hallway. That might’ve just been my imagination though.

Anyway, once I walked inside and turned on the lights, I rummaged the fridge and cupboards for dinner. Nothing but just a bunch of spices, sauces, dressings—a bunch of flavoring ingredients all contributed by my other three apartment mates—but nothing to actually put them on and eat.

Once again, it came to this.

I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner. Then I went to bed.
Every morning (sometimes afternoon)...

Fuck.

I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner. Then I went to bed.
Every morning (sometimes afternoon)...

I bought some Hamburger Helper today! Let’s make some.

Way too fucking salty. Doesn’t even look like the picture on the box.

Every morning (sometimes afternoon)...

I hated this.

I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner. Then I went to bed.


I don’t know what possessed me, but eventually I worked up the courage to break out of daily routine. Thursday night, I made a homecooked meal. In the freezer, I kept some salmon that I had marinated with stuff I scrounged from the kitchen (minced garlic, that Asian red chili sauce, pepper, and some kind of olive oil vinaigrette). I had also had some spinach and pasta lying around, and I figured they would all go great with each other. There was no recipe to follow; I just went with what felt right, and Kevin and Alfonso were there to help out. What a bromance.

After frying the salmon and throwing on the spinach, Alfonso tossed on the lid, and I was amazed as the pan filled with water and as what I thought was more than enough spinach shrunk to barely enough for the three of us.

Jumping out of the way of the oil splashes as the salmon drops onto the frying pan. Dumping the spinach all over the salmon and wondering how I was going to stir with all that puffy leafy green overflowing. Subsequently being amazed at how much the spinach shrinks. The crackling sounds of frying fish and smothering smell of garlic were all sensations that my kitchen had never experienced prior to this.

The end result was fucking amazing. I plated a lot for myself and ate it like I had eaten nothing for days—or more literally—nothing but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner for the past week.

The rest of the night was overall just chill and blissful. Kevin, Alfonso, and I enjoyed our (my) homecooked meal quietly sitting on stools at the kitchen counter. Quietly at least until Kevin went off on yet another really long rave about dancing. His topic of the night was the three different types of dancers: the blahblah, the whatever, and the blahblahblah. Alfonso and I exchanged glances as I brought my bowl of pasta to my mouth and shoveled more in. (Really though, I actually like listening to all of Kevin’s rants and raves as they’re pretty insightful.)

About forty minutes passed, and I swallowed the last speck of salmon. Finally, I felt like I was living. After Kevin and Alfonso left and after setting the dishwasher, I climbed into my bed and rested peacefully under the covers that night.

We need more nights like this.