The first time I saw my 25-pound bulk-order bag of whole-wheat flour, I was struck with a sense of wonder, quickly followed by one of terror and great responsibility.
“Can you get that up the stairs?” asked my housemate, Lizzie, clearly concerned my arms couldn’t take it. I gulped, hoisted the bag onto my hip, and carried a year’s worth of flour, destined to become bread, up to our tiny pantry.
Senior year has required me to take on a responsibility for my home that is new and exciting. The idea of moving into an almost empty house was thrilling and intimidating. In the past, I’d done most of my cooking at my mom’s house, which meant access to a full range of pots, pans, knives, mixers, and gadgets that she had accumulated over years. It was time for me to think about how I was to sustain myself, with the help of two eager housemates, on my own turf. More than a romanticized reclaiming of domesticity, my kitchen was about budgeting and building.
In the two weeks before I returned to school, I made lists of items that I knew I would need. I raided my mom’s hoard of kitchen supplies. I visited thrift stores looking for kitschy mugs and sturdy knives. One of my housemates offered the Applemate 1, a gadget resembling a torture device that could peel, core, and slice apples after a few steady turns of a crank.
Once our kitchen was stocked and decorated, my housemates and I sat down to discuss the delicate and daunting matter of how we would buy and share food for the house. We decided to budget our points towards Fruit and Veggie Co-op shares and a bulk order from Weshop, which forced us to think about the foods we liked to eat, how much they cost, and whether or not such investments could carry us through the year. So, in a fit of pragmatism, I made an offer that has come back to haunt me—I promised to bake a weekly batch of bread.
Unfortunately, my mom’s kitchen yielded no bread-maker. So now, at least once a week, I inevitably find myself three hours into valuable Saturday morning homework time, kneading. Bread holds me hostage in my kitchen, requiring multiple sessions rising, kneading, and shaping. Beyond the serious time commitment, I’ve committed a significant chunk of points to the bulk order, intended to last all semester. I do get the joy of hot bread right out of the oven, and mornings of toast and coffee with my housemates—which no store-bought loaf can provide. But more than anything, budgeting points for food that is supposed to last for months serves as an important reminder: next year, I’ll have to know how to fend for myself, both at the bank and in the kitchen. Every cent spent on that flour will go to good use, and breakfast has to come from somewhere.
Most of my friends from high school have long since departed from any kind of meal plan at their respective colleges, and I often think that they’re in some ways more prepared for Life-After-Graduation than I am. While our meal plan points do force us—especially upperclassmen—to budget and be aware of the “money” we spend on food, the University nonetheless lays out students’ spending options, with little room for choice. I don’t have to choose between grocery stores, consider the implications and costs of different food co-ops, and worry if I have enough money to “splurge” and eat at a restaurant. On campus, with dining options ranging from Usdan to WesWings, it’s pretty easy for me to eat out on nights when I just don’t feel like cooking.
Next year, I know that I’m going to have to finally confront handing over real dollar bills if I want weekly organic fruits and vegetables, or a salad topped with delicious fried seitan. Even the organic whole wheat flour I buy in bulk at Weshop will seem like a luxury—spending a percentage of my meal plan points is quite different from spending a portion of what will likely be a tiny paycheck, especially when you throw in rent, health insurance, and (one can only hope) savings. By putting all students on a meal plan, the University creates a system in which I think of my food money as “less real” than money that I spend on clothes or school supplies. If I kept up the eating habits I have at Wesleyan, I’d no doubt have no money for transportation or an apartment. At school, it’s all already-paid-for—an organic chocolate bar during a long night of studying is a pretty ordinary treat. If Wesleyan can provide us with resources like resume workshops, sexual health clinics, and, of course, real houses to live in, I can’t help but wonder why the closest thing students have to spending guidelines—for points or otherwise—is a student-made point-tracking spreadsheet posted on Wesleying.
Nevertheless, I’m learning, and for now, I’m working slowly but surely at that 25 pound bag of flour, trying to think more carefully about how, and with what resources, I’m feeding myself.
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