It was Tuesday, and after staying up the night before to watch the sunrise and, less importantly, to finish a paper, I had just two goals for the day: to cook, kind of, and to get wasted, definitely. Unfortunately, those events did not occur in that order and it wasn’t until midnight, in a state of heightened inebriation, that I decided to make milkshakes. Rather than ask my friends or the internet for suggestions, I was determined to create my own milkshake recipe.My declaration that the chief ingredient would be cream cheese was met with mixed response among the group. Ana led the playa-hating and made it clear that my milkshakes were doomed in principle and would not bring any boys to the yard. Dan and Max, however, encouraged my belligerence and suggested I find the ingredients throughout the old apartments.

To assist me in this task was the equally impaired but always extraordinary Gillian Galdy. Together, we frolicked about the brick path, entering the apartments of the people we knew, and wondering why (1) no one was home and (2) no one’s refrigerators had any of the elements we needed to make my wonderful shakes.

We returned to our friends with a dismal collection of secondhand food items: two light beers and the dregs of a carton of half-and-half from Mr. Furlough, and one egg we took from Hrothgar’s fridge (but don’t tell him because he doesn’t know and I doubt he reads this column).

With only enough ingredients to make a beast omelet with cream, I persuaded the sober Ana and Dan into taking me to Teeter where I could buy the cream cheese, ice cream and bananas to finally make my dream of the ideal drunk munchie a reality.

To my delight the Harris Teeter brand ice cream was buy-one-get-two-free so I bought chocolate and got Ana’s strawberry and Dan’s cookies-n-cream free. With each passing moment I was closer to the milkshakes that had been on my mind since I had started drinking so many hours ago.

When we returned the quiet gathering of friends we left had transformed into a small party on the porch of Dan’s apartment. Apparently I made an announcement that I was going upstairs to make the milkshakes and would return with nektar for everyone.

Since the cream cheese shake was my invention and I had waited so long to realize it, I deemed the formalities of measuring unimportant. I threw two generous cups of powdered sugar and the whole packet of cream cheese into a mixing bowl and used just as god had intended me to: to mix. When the stuff had reached a state of silky whipper, I readied the blender.

With no explicit rhyme or reason to the untrained, or sober, eye I threw precise amounts of ice cream and cream cheese whipper into the blender, added a whole banana and clicked “pulse.” A few minutes later I was on my way downstairs with six cups of my special cream cheese milkshakes. Luckily a very talented panel of critics was on hand to pass their judgments.

Ryan Furlough, Mike O’Malley, Sean Finan, and Kevin Smithy all approved of my concoction. The strawberry was the decided favorite, although Dan stayed loyal to his cookies-n-cream decision and Colin preferred the chocolate. However, the cream cheese stole the show and everyone agreed that even drunk, I deserved to keep my title as Iron Chef. Challenges will be accepted in the traditional medieval fashion of glove across the cheek.

And so we reach the end of the semester.