On the eating habits of teenage boys

Or Why Miranda was up at 4am today.

Hey there. Long time no see, huh? Life's been interesting. Anyway, what you are about to read if the product of three pages of scribbling between classes and four or five hours of frantic work this morning (yes, starting at 4am). I would like some honest critique on this, since the only other people who will be reading it are going to be critiquing it for a grade and I'm sure a few of them just ramble on to fill up the page requirements.

It was nearing midnight. The courtyard was empty and silent, dimly lit by the shabby lights running in a long line on the undersides of the upper-story walkways. Here and there, brighter light leaked around the edges of curtains from the rooms whose occupants were still awake. In one such room, Justin sat cross-legged on his bed, staring blankly at his laptop screen. An essay prompt took up the first few lines of the document he had open, but the rest was blank white.

Write an essay concerning a certain group of people with specific behaviors. Choose one of these behaviors and explain its significance. What is the driving reason for the behavior? Does it serve any kind of practical purpose? Is it time-specific? If so, what is the time?

He’d typed the prompt more than an hour ago, but nothing had come to him after that. It was just an essay, one for a freshman-level anthropology course. It should have been simple for him after the 300 level classes he had taken in previous semesters, but he was well and truly stumped.
“Stupid filler courses,” he muttered, and slid off the bed, hissing softly when his feet hit the cold bare tile. “Stupid humanities requirements.” He jerked his mini-fridge open and considered the collection of takeout leftovers for a moment, then selected a plastic container and slammed the door shut. “Stupid low-level expectations.” He put the container in the microwave, punched a few buttons, and pulled away to pace the length of the little dorm room. It was eight short strides from the door to the sink.
The door opened on his fourth circuit, nearly hitting Justin in the back.
“Still up?” Carlos asked, walking over to his bed and dropping his backpack on it.
“Working on that essay.”
“The one due tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
Carlos snorted.
“Good luck with that. Here.” He put a brown paper bag, darkened in spots with grease, on Justin’s desk. “Donna brought these home from work. Said there were too many for just her.”
“Thanks.” The microwave switched off with a cheery chime. Justin slouched over to it and took out his snack. “Going back out?”
“Uh-huh. There’s a bonfire out past the old quarry. Wanna come?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Your loss. Have fun with that essay.”
“Right,” Justin muttered, digging a plastic spoon out of the purple novelty glass he’d won a t a carnival last fall. “Fun.”
Leaning against the desk, he sampled the curry and made a face; it didn’t taste quite right. He took a plastic basket off the top of the microwave and proceeded to drown the curry in Tabasco sauce and ketchup.
Curry in hand, he went back to his bed and settled on it, ignoring his laptop in favor of eating. Halfway through the container, he stopped and actually looked at it. Mixing his seasonings in had turned the whole thing the color of rust, arguably the most unappetizing color on the warm side of the spectrum. This was why people didn’t like watching him eat; the general consensus was that the things he liked to eat were strange, unappealing, or downright gross.
Now that he thought about it, he’d picked up a lot of his preferences from his friends. Mischa had introduced him to curry in the first place, Ryan always had a bottle of Tabasco on him, and Ryoma just liked to eat weird food.
Justin sighed and put the remains of the curry down. He missed his friends. Graduation had scattered them all over, and now he had no one to accompany him on late-night quests for pancakes and coffee or to help him weight the merits of different donut shops. His fellow students didn’t seem to have much of an interest in sushi or Greek food or really phenomenal crepes made fresh by a street vendor. Nobody here ate dangerously, and, since it was no fun to do it alone, neither did he.
To be fair, most of the student body came out of rural or suburban areas, and the last time he had checked, sushi shops did not appear in cornfields and there were better places for all-night diners than down sitcom-esque cul-de-sacs. The opportunity to eat like he did was the privilege of the urbanite. And that was an idea.
“’s worth a shot,” he murmured, reaching out to pull the laptop up onto his knees. He stared at the keys for a minute, considering how to go about starting off, and then began to type.

Urban areas enjoy a greater ethnic diversity by virtue of the opportunities available in them. More employment is available in places with higher demand for workers, and more employment means more opportunities for the individual to make a place in the world. Where there is ethnic diversity, there is a wealth of foods both foreign and familiar. No one knows this better than the elusive creature that is the urban teenager boy.
*                     *                     *                      *                     *                    *                     *                    
“Starting today, I’m packing lunch,” Ryan muttered. “Did anyone actually try those enchiladas?”
“More importantly, did anyone survive the enchiladas?” Justin asked. He checked his watch. “I’ve got two hours before I have to be home. I say we track down some real food. All in favor?”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
“Only if I get to pick where we go. If I so much as look at another burger, I’m going to die.”
Justin hesitated, looking at Ryoma, then at his other friends.
“Uh…I guess that’s okay, but…nothing too weird, okay?”
Ryoma rolled his eyes.
“You’re such a wuss, Justin.”
“I am not!”
“I didn’t have anything too outlandish in mind anyway. Don’t get your panties in a wad. C’mon.”

Half an hour later, all four of them were crammed into a corner booth at the back of a cramped little place called ‘Muang Thai’. The sign was nearly wider than the grimy storefront, and it had taken Ryoma picking Ryan up and marching inside to get Mischa and Justin to follow him.
“Are you sure this place is safe?” Ryan demanded, fidgeting uncomfortably. “It looks like it should have been shut down by the city ages ago.”
“Ryan, I eat strange food, not bad food. I know where to get the good stuff.” Ryoma sipped at his drink, some milky coffee-colored thing that no one else had even considered ordering. “Finding a good hole in the wall is an art.”
“We could have gone for pizza.”
“Oh, quit being such a baby. It won’t kill you to step outside the box for a bit and try something that doesn’t fit with your middle-class all-American diet. And stop whining.”
“Or what?’
“Or I’ll use those photos I took on cross-dress day for the yearbook.”
“You still have those?”
“Of course I do.”
Ryan looked horrified. Justin and Mischa snickered, but chose to stay out of the argument.
Their waitress glided over and placed two massive plates on the table, turning to take a smaller dish from the kitchen boy who followed her.
“Enjoy!” she said brightly, and left them alone.
“What are these?” Mischa poked at the crisp brown balls on one plate. “Are these some kind of wonton?”
“Mmhm. Crab. Try one.”
Ryan and Justin watch as Mischa obeyed, dipping it in the pale pink sauce in one half of the smallest dish before taking a bite.
“Oh, God, that’s good,” he mumbled around a mouthful. “My mom’s aren’t even this good.”
“Fine, so the wontons are edible,” Ryan groused. “What are the sauces?”
“The pink one is sweet and sour. The red one is chile and garlic.” Ryoma dipped a battered shrimp in the chile sauce and began to eat. “Don’t ask questions. Just eat.”
It only took a few minutes for them to realize that not only were the wontons and shrimp edible, they were excellent. Then, in the way teenage boys tend to do, they demolished both plates.

Teenage boys everywhere will eat for any reason, at any time, and many of them will eat anything. Sometimes, however, they actually both to prepare their own foods instead of seeking out family members or fast food chains to do the work for them. These rare occasions are never without just cause and more than enough justification to avoid being labeled ‘girly’ or ‘gay’, which tend to be grievous insults.

They tended to hang out at Ryan’s house during school holidays, more for the convenience than for any other reason. The house was pretty far from any of the interesting parts of the city, situated in the kind of neighborhood that was mostly hidden behind walls and fences and trees that were older than anyone who actually lived in the area. The sole redeeming feature was Ryan’s room; when he was twelve, he had begun trying to convince his parents to let him move into the guest house, which was used only a few times a year. It made more sense to have a guest room or two in the house, so guests could actually spend time with the family instead of holing up in the backyard, he had pointed out. After four years of nagging, they had given in, and now Ryan had a bedroom, bathroom, open lounge area, kitchenette, and loft all to himself.
“I hereby call this meeting of the Terminally Bored Coalition of Lazy Asses to order,” Justin said, using Ryan’s calculus textbook to hammer on the table and get everyone’s attention. “The first order of business is deciding what we’re going to go for break. We’ve only got two weeks after tomorrow. We can’t spend the whole time lying around in here.”
“Do you have any suggestions, Einstein?” Ryoma demanded. He wadded up a sheet of scratch paper that was already covered in biology notes and bounced it off Justin’s forehead. “I know I don’t.”
“I hadn’t really come up with anything yet, but there’s all kinds of stuff going on in town.”
“The street festival on Temple Street starts on Friday,” Mischa suggested. “Have any of you ever been?” He coughed and retreated a little further into the blanket he’d taken off Ryan’s bed. “It’s really neat. And the dancing girls in the parade are gorgeous. On par with professional dancers.”
“Who cares if you’re never gonna get to talk to them?” Ryan demanded. He slid two heavy ceramic bowls onto the table. “Here. I’ve had this going since last night.”
Ryoma, Justin and Mischa all peered into the bowls. They contained chucks of meat and potato and carrot, along with smaller, less easily identified things. The smell rising from them was rich and meaty.
“What is it?” Justin asked.
“Irish stew.” Ryan returned with two more bowls and dropped into the only open chair. “I got the recipe from one of my mom’s cookbooks. She never makes it.”
“You can cook?”
“Got a problem with it?”
Ryoma shook his head and pulled a bowl towards him. He picked a piece of carrot out and examined it. “I’m just surprised, is all. You’re usually the one trying to retain your masculinity, and cooking just seems…out of character for you.”
“Gotta have something to eat when I’m up ‘til two doing homework. My parents hate it when I come into the house in the middle of the night looking for food. And the weather’s been rotten. I like stew on cold days.” Ryan dug into the stew, and was several hefty bites in when he realized that Ryoma was the only one who had even tried tasting it yet. “Just try it already. Hasn’t killed me.”
Justin sighed and took a bite. It was a little on the hot side still, but even a slightly burnt tongue couldn’t stop him from just closing his eyes and chewing for a minute.
“That’s….pretty good.”
“Thanks, man. G’wan, Misch, it’s good for you. Better than chicken soup for a cold.”
“But-“
“Just try it!”

Eating is a daily activity, something that the human body requires to be able to function properly. Even so, some ceremonies and events in the life of a teenager require a special kind of food or a certain way of eating or serving the food to complete them.

“Remind me again why we aren’t taking the girls out to dinner?”
“How many times are you going to ask, Ryan? Because there’s going to be a dessert bar at the dance and it was a vote of six to two in favor of going out for food afterwards instead.” Justin folded a slice of pizza in half and wolfed it down, careful of his jacket. The pizza had been late in arriving, so they had all lazed around in their tuxedos until it arrived.
“But it’s tradition!”
Mischa threw a packet of parmesan cheese at Ryan.
“But it would be silly. Why go and eat a full meal right before you’re going to have your pick of desserts from some of the best kitchens in the city? It’s pointless.”
“Besides, it’s more fun to make our own traditions,” Ryoma added, batting ineffectively at a long lock of his hair. “Dammit, this is going to drive me crazy all night.”
“Shouldn’t have worn it down, then,” Ryan sneered, pleased to have the upper hand on anything for a minute.
“Kristina likes it when I wear it loose, and I hardly ever do. Promising to leave my hair ties at home for one night isn’t going to kill me.” He tried to take a bite of his pizza, failed, and had to gather his hair up in one hand to hold out of the way before he could eat. “Although choking on my hair could.”
“You should get it cut. You’re getting close to the point of no return.” Ryan shook Tabasco onto his slice, not stopping until it gleamed dull red and all three of his friends could clearly smell the chile from where they sat.
“What point of no return?”
“Hippie status,” Mischa said helpfully. “Once you get to that point…there’s no coming back.”
“As if you would know.”
“I used to have hair almost as long as yours.”
“And you abused the hell out of it! It’s not the same!” Ryoma gestured with his pizza, jabbing it accusingly at Mischa. “Even I don’t have a different hair color every other week.”
“It was a phase!”
“Guys, chill. We have ten minutes before we have to pick the girls up.”

As with any culture, important dates on the calendar of a teenage boy are marked with the preparation and consumption of large amounts of food. These feasts can be in honor of achievements, to mourn a great loss- such as a favorite sports team losing an important match- or to bring an event to a close. Whatever the reason, such gatherings are often packed with diverse foods, which those involved with the feast consume without question.

Mischa’s backyard was full of people. Most of them were friends of someone’s family or obscure relatives, but there were a few of the boys’ classmates scattered throughout the crowd, milling around with a glass of punch, a can of soda, or a plate of food.
Mischa’s grandmother and Justin’s least favorite aunt had joined forces, trying to find the new graduates and heap unwanted embarrassment upon them.
“How long until the party’s over?” Justin moaned, pressing back against the trunk of the old oak tree they were hiding in. A half-finished plate of goodies sat forgotten near his foot.
“Another three hours.” Ryoma peered between two boards that had shrunk with age and weather, scanning the partygoers for signs of danger. “Misch, are you sure they can’t get us up here?”
“I used every bit of oldest sibling clout I have to make sure the munchkins are going to keep everyone away from the ladder,” Mischa promised, nibbling at a miniature quiche. “They all know that I have just short of three more months left before I leave, and that I can make the summer a living hell for them if I want to.”
“What did you threaten them with? I can never make my sisters do what I want.”
Mischa grinned evilly.
“Well, to start with, I promised that I’d play Rammstein nonstop from now until the day I drive off.”
“Oh, yuck! How can you stand that crap?”
“I like it. Just because you can’t appreciate a good-mrph!”
Justin smiled sweetly at Mischa and gave the blonde brownie he’d shoved into his friend’s mouth another push, to make sure it was properly wedged in.
“Can it. You’ve been trying to convert us all to that stupid metal band for years. You haven’t made any progress until now and a couple more months isn’t going to change it. Give it up already.”
Mischa began trying to chew through his impromptu gag, casually flipping Ryoma off when the taller boy went from amused snickering to outright laughing at his predicament.
“Kinda hard to believe that we’ve just got a couple more months left before we’re officially college students,” Ryan murmured. He turned a hot wing over on his plate, staring at the whorls of spices on the crisp skin. “It doesn’t feel like it’s been four years.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think it does.”
“Enlighten us, then,” Justin said, nudging his plate away. “Anyone want the last of my ribs? I can’t eat anymore.”
“Mine!” Ryoma pounced on the plate. “Anyway…when you think about it, we did so much. The play in sophomore year, remember? The rave-themed one?”
“I remember that,” Ryan chuckled. “You looked like such a girl in that makeup.”
“I resent that.”
“Cross-dress day, freshman year,” Mischa put in, swallowing the last of the brownie. “Spending all weekend digging through second-hand shops, looking for a skirt that would fit over my big hips.”
“Painting the guard shack for April Fool’s Day.”
“Trying to help Samantha get her dress back on when it fell down at junior prom.”
“Organizing junior prom.”
“Building trebuchets for physics and breaking the classroom window.”
“Bomb threat week.”
“Freshman orientation.”
“Scaring the new kids.”
“Duct-taping Principal Edwards to the gym wall for the Pep Rally.”
“Saving the pies when the culinary arts kitchen caught fire.”
“Actually winning the Powder-puff Game.”
“Mischa Azrael Tanner! Get down here right this minute and talk to your guests! Do you hear me?”
“Shit!” Mischa peeked over the edge of the tree house window. “We’ve been ratted out.”
“Who did it?” Justin demanded, joining him.
“Leilani. You little brat! It’s gonna be Rammstein for three months straight, do you hear me? Three months straight!”
*                     *                     *                      *                     *                    *                     *                    
Justin gave the freshly printed pages a quick tap against the desk to straighten them, stapled it, and put it down, smiling. Ten pages, all done with more than six hours to spare before he had to be in class, and completed in a single sitting over a bowl of curry.
He opened the bag Carlos had brought in and pulled out the top donut, a sticky chocolate frosted one with green shamrock sprinkles. It was still soft, smelling of yeast and the oil it had been fried in, giving easily under his fingers. He returned to his bed with the pastry and leaned back against the pillows, eating slowly, utterly content.
The lights in the courtyard had switched off, made obsolete by the sunlight creeping over the roof and lighting up the stark concrete and cobble common area. A few chickadees hopped about, exploring the discarded remains of a few wild weekends, chirping brightly in the echoing space.