Made With Love

I peel back the plastic film of one of many microwavable meal options my place of work offers. It refuses to come off in one piece, so I'm left to irritably tear at the little bits that stick to the edge and flop onto the cold food. Yum.

Once the meal is as microplastic-free as I can get it, I turn to face off with the strange microwave in food storage. The blue buttons on the side are labeled 0-9 in a neat column, each corresponding to a preset time. I quickly learned that the time compounds if you press the buttons multiple times in quick succession. If you are perhaps limited to a strict duration, you have to first press TIME on the bottom next to START, then enter the number, a lesson which I admit with only some embarrassment took me a while to learn. Still, when I'm feeling particularly lazy, I'll spam a random button and let the microwave run.

I place the meal inside and watch the door swing shut. As I look at the timer, I pause. My mind draws a blank.

With a sigh, I dig out the cardboard container from the trash to read the instructions. No matter how often I heat up one of these things, my Swiss-cheese brain won't latch onto the information. It seems those little blue buttons have monopolized all of my mental faculties.

Peel back film, then cook for 3-4 minutes on HIGH or until internal temperature is 165 degrees. Let sit for a minute, stir, then enjoy.

I leave the box on the metal table for good measure and press 6.

01:10

I press it two more times.

02:20

03:30

Perfect. START.

The meal sits static as the microwave begins its countdown. Did I mention the inside doesn't have a rotating glass plate? The food always comes out unevenly heated. Each bite is a game of Russian roulette where every hot forkful comes with a greater risk of an icy cold crunch.

I close my eyes and listen to the crackle of little water particles exploding from being heated too quickly. I think about what brought me here.

One of the patients told me they haven't eaten for two weeks.

It was a new guy, recently walked in by himself, no friends or family to accompany him. He's an older man with a gray, shaggy beard, yellowing teeth, and pockmarked skin. He came to Sunny Days Behavioral Health Center for substance use treatment.

I'm not really sure how true his words were about the time frame of his last meal, given the tricks drugs can play on the mind and body and the desperate things one may say or do consequently. Regardless of the statement's verity, however, he says he's hungry, and I believe it. So now I'm heating another chicken Parmesan, even though the patient already had a meal, and management has been breathing down our necks about dwindling finances and unnecessary food expenses.

As the tangy, savory smell of marinara sauce hits my nose, my stomach grumbles. I check my watch.

3 AM.

Past the time I like to eat and around the time of my shift when I start to get sleepy and irritable, especially without food.

We're a small facility, so we don't actually have a cafeteria. Besides, as a Tech who works 3rd shift, it would be closed anyway. Many of my colleagues order food or bring takeout. Some cook for themselves. Others nab whatever is leftover from the hot meal orders that patients eat for dinner. Today, I brought something my mom made me.

I keep telling her that I'm a grown adult, and it's a little embarrassing to bring a packed lunch from home like I'm some grade schooler. She worries that if she didn't cook for me every now and then, I would end up eating much like the patient I'm serving now.

I wonder when the last time he got a meal made with love was.

My gaze returns to the tray in the microwave. It's hard to see through the glass, crusty as it is. Somebody should probably wipe it down.

I squint and make out a white glob that I assume is melted mozzarella, when, with a start, I remember my food also happens to be Parmesan, eggplant not chicken. Unbidden, my mind starts to categorize all the other differences between my food and this patient's. The noodles my mother used were spaghetti, not penne, plus the sauce is homemade with garden-fresh ingredients. A note on the container gently encourages me to eat it all. My eyes water. I tear them away from the window to look at the countdown. 4 seconds left.

00:03

00:02

00:01

Before the timer can reach zero, I open the microwave. I hate the noise it makes, and there's a particularly crabby patient whose room is nearby that I'm actively trying not to wake. I take the food and open one of the packaged plastic forks to stir the noodles.

I grab a Styrofoam plate to lay the hot tray on, though I pause again just before setting it down. Impulsively, I dump the food on the plate instead, placing the now-empty tray to the side, next to the cardboard container. I grab two little salt and pepper packets as well as a napkin to wrap the fork in, drawing on my past skills as a server. I place both on the side of the plate, just far enough not to touch the food.

There.

Now it looks a little less like the microwave meal it is and more like a restaurant-made dish. Kinda sorta.

I shift from one foot to the other, still unsatisfied. After a moment's thought, I grab another napkin and uncap the Sharpie I keep clipped to the ID badge hanging on my lanyard.

Enjoy your me—

A nurse enters the food storage area, and I quickly tear up the message. The Sharpie clatters and rolls to a stop on the table. She pauses at the sight of me and carefully does not ask what I was doing. We know each other well from many a night working together. She takes her patients' well-being seriously, and I'm always relieved to see her name on the schedule. I'm a little less relieved to see her now.

"Hey, I thought you were going on your meal break?" Her eyes wander to the plate on the table, and I slightly move to block it with my torso, bashful at my attempt to make it gourmet. She quirks a brow and says flatly, "That better be for you and not the new guy in 134."

"Uh, yes?" My response is slow, and my voice ends on an uncertain note. It's clear I'm not sure what exactly I'm responding to.

In a few quick strides, she stands next to me and picks the food up, careful not to spill. "Go. I got this. Can't take care of others if you don't take care of yourself, right?"

I'm pretty sure she hasn't taken her break yet either, but, as if expecting that response, she leaves before I can point out the hypocrisy. Standing there alone and empty-handed, I find myself oddly upset.

My stomach growls.