When I was in college, my sister and her husband left for a two-week vacation in Paris, and they asked if I would apartment sit for them. Would I? I couldn't get there fast enough. They lived down the street from my campus in Chicago in the first floor of an old brownstone. I was allowed a few friends to stay with me.
I moved in with three friends, Gina, Regina, and Ginger. We pooled our money to buy groceries for the two weeks, but since we were all broke, we couldn't afford much. What we could afford was cheap tuna fish and noodles and a loaf of bread. We made whatever we could think of with that stuff--sandwiches, salad, and tuna noodle casserole--night after night.
One evening when everyone had gone out but Gina and I, we decided to dress in my sister's funkiest clothes and go out on the town. My sister, being an artist, had a closet full of interesting clothes we could only dream of owning, and we got all dolled up. We thought we looked snappy, but I'm sure we looked more like little girls playing dress up with their mother's clothes.
We scraped together a few thin dollars and went to a diner near North Shore Drive, and we ordered ice cream and coffee. It's all we could spring for, but our outing was surprisingly fun. Afterwards, we walked back to the apartment to find we had locked ourselves out. The women who lived on the floor above didn't have a spare key for us, but they let us in to their apartment to see if they could help us sort out our situation. They felt sorry for us because they smelled the tuna casserole every night and knew we were broke. Evidently, when they were younger and poor, they ate a lot of tuna casserole, too. Food for the needy.
We finally decided to walk back to campus to see if we could find help. There we sat in the middle of the common plaza in our poorly fitting fancy clothes looking like fools, and it was then that help arrived--in the form of the manager of the local radio station, Mr. Warren. Being a good sport, Mr. Warren took us back to the apartment, hoisted Gina up on his shoulders, and helped her in raising an unlocked window.
We put back the artsy clothes in exchange for our normal duds and settled in for another night of tuna noodle casserole. And it was a comfort. A fish-smelling, salt-laden, mushy comfort.
I moved in with three friends, Gina, Regina, and Ginger. We pooled our money to buy groceries for the two weeks, but since we were all broke, we couldn't afford much. What we could afford was cheap tuna fish and noodles and a loaf of bread. We made whatever we could think of with that stuff--sandwiches, salad, and tuna noodle casserole--night after night.
One evening when everyone had gone out but Gina and I, we decided to dress in my sister's funkiest clothes and go out on the town. My sister, being an artist, had a closet full of interesting clothes we could only dream of owning, and we got all dolled up. We thought we looked snappy, but I'm sure we looked more like little girls playing dress up with their mother's clothes.
We scraped together a few thin dollars and went to a diner near North Shore Drive, and we ordered ice cream and coffee. It's all we could spring for, but our outing was surprisingly fun. Afterwards, we walked back to the apartment to find we had locked ourselves out. The women who lived on the floor above didn't have a spare key for us, but they let us in to their apartment to see if they could help us sort out our situation. They felt sorry for us because they smelled the tuna casserole every night and knew we were broke. Evidently, when they were younger and poor, they ate a lot of tuna casserole, too. Food for the needy.
We finally decided to walk back to campus to see if we could find help. There we sat in the middle of the common plaza in our poorly fitting fancy clothes looking like fools, and it was then that help arrived--in the form of the manager of the local radio station, Mr. Warren. Being a good sport, Mr. Warren took us back to the apartment, hoisted Gina up on his shoulders, and helped her in raising an unlocked window.
We put back the artsy clothes in exchange for our normal duds and settled in for another night of tuna noodle casserole. And it was a comfort. A fish-smelling, salt-laden, mushy comfort.
Comments
With us it was "out of date dried pasta" that we got free from a lady at the supermarket, cooked up with anything we could find.
A typical meal for six would be a big load of pasta, plus half an onion and a single veggie sausage. Were I still a student I could probably make my current weekly grocery shopping last all year.
I love nice guys like Mr. Warren.
I should probably be sending her a thank you note because she fed me all through college.
When I was finally making money...I ate a lot of tuna casseroles and to this day....I LOVE them.