The eight-minute meal.

Opening a couple of cans for a quick meal sounded easy. But for Donna White and her friend, this meal took perseverance - and a sense of humor.

Canned sweet and sour chicken served over boil-in-the-bag rice. Sounds good, right? If you believe that, I have some terrific beachfront land in the mountains for sale.

If you are thinking of tossing this story aside because of upcoming negative connotations, please hang in there. If for no other reason than to glory in the knowledge that you would never be crazy or stubborn enough to spend three hours attempting to prepare an eight-minute meal.

6:20 P.M.: My friend Steve and I had spent a pleasant afternoon together and I invited him to stay for dinner. He said, "Great, let me help you." Since we were both quite hungry, I suggested sweet and sour chicken over rice. The meal consisted of two cans - one small, containing chicken and sauce; one large, containing vegetables. They were attached.

"I'll start the rice. You can separate the cans," I said. Little did we know that those last few words would bum in our memories for years to come. Let me explain. Our physical challenges include poor eyesight and tremors (him); weak, numb hands (me); poor coordination (both).

Steve said, "Hand me the cans. I can twist them apart." He's quite strong. When twisting didn't work he said, "Hand me a big knife. I'll cut them apart." No luck. He was getting angry then and began twisting and banging. Being a bit more patient, I said, "I'll get a really big knife and try to cut the tape." After which I was not only angry but also frustrated! The rice was long since done, and we were hungry.

It was then that I decided to heck with trying to separate the cans. I'll open the small can from the top, dump it in the pan, then turn the cans over and open the big one from the bottom. Of course both cans were just a little taller than my electric can opener, but, heck, that's no problem. Steve will hold the cans while I operate the can opener. Right? Oh sure. Remember I mentioned earlier about the tremors (his) and weakness (mine)? Suffice it to say, this attempt continued for the next hour and a half.

We were still taking turns holding the heavy cans under the blade when the can opener began to make a low growling noise and refused to go on. Who could blame it?

At this point Steve was sputtering that he could "eat a shark" and I wanted to just throw the whole mess in the trash. (Mess because we had been prying the can and in a few places it had opened.) Steve, however, harkened back to his earlier life and announced, "You cannot waste food. Think of all the starving children in China." (Sigh.) I dug up an old manual can opener and we each tried and tried. It made a few tiny slits but was just too old and dull.

In a frenzy of total frustration, anger, and starvation, I then proceeded to bend the lids with my bare hands, just enough to pry out the contents. Steve was at my elbow with a bowl and was ready to sprint for bandages. In less than eight minutes I dispatched all the contents into the pan, quickly heated same, and spooned it over the now ice-cold rice.

A fleeting thought went through my mind: "What if, after all this, it doesn't taste good?"

Fortunately for us, it was delicious. The clock above the sink read 9:20 P.M.

From MS Chatter (see page 21 for information on this publication.)

Donna J. White was diagnosed with MS in 1985. She is the mother of four grown children and has five grandchildren. She is a poet and a regular contributor to MS Chatter.