I’ve written a handful of articles in my time as a Humor writer about a number of topics—from politics, to Greek life, to women in sports, and other things that can, when discussed improperly, become controversial. This is all fun and great, but I intend to get very serious with this next piece. I intend now to write a piece that hits close to home for all of us.
UR community, something has happened.
Can someone explain to me what in God’s name Macaroni and Cheese Soup is? I went to The Pit a few weeks ago to buy what I considered to be the best deal on campus: a 16 oz. helping of some pretty average mac and cheese, priced somewhere in the four-dollar range. (I would look it up, but I’m ranting right now and don’t have the time for specifics). Much to my dismay, what I saw was something much different in place. “Macaroni and Cheese Soup,” the sign read.
At first I’m thinking, “Ha-ha. Dining says the darnedest things. Let’s scoop up some of that liquid gold.” But no, what I see in the metal serving container is not the macaroni and cheese I’ve grown to love, but some sinister concoction of floppy noodles in a gross-looking cheese-broth-thing with some silly, sad spice-things sprinkled in. I’m immediately turned off by the sight of this fake item of food. This is mac and cheese soup. This is the end of the world as we know it.
I feel like screaming and storming out of the pit, but I pull it together. I have to try this item—I’m a journalist—and I must report. The world (or at least my single-digit number of readers) must truly understand the injustice and gravity of this situation. I buy it, settling for the 12 oz. option just in case toxicity occurs at 16 oz.
I’m sure you must realize at this point that I didn’t like the “soup,” or my narrative thus far would have been much different. But I want you to understand just how much I didn’t like it. This “piece of food” didn’t make sense. The cheese was watery and mixed with something tomato-y, from what I could tell. It seemed like they just dropped a block of provolone into tomato broth and continued making other food. The noodles were overcooked and breaking apart from my plastic spoon. How does that happen? The soup wasn’t even that warm. In what manner were they cooked that allowed this terrible monstrosity to happen? Who signed this order? Who let mac and cheese soup slip through the cracks?
Of course, this bothers me like no other thing could, but what concerns me even more is the implications this might hold. What food is changed next? Just how vast is the scope of dining’s creative license? On days like this I’m so glad to be a senior. I wouldn’t be able to deal with eating Mel Burger Soups; Bacon, Egg, and Cheese Soups; or Panda Bowl Soups. It’s coming, kids. Perfectly fine and adequate foods are going to succumb to Dining’s reign and become soups. The world is hard—and mac and cheese is no longer something you can buy at the Pit. Brace yourself. Change is coming.
