Misadventures of a Student Chef

Ever since becoming emancipated from kitchen-less dorms, I’d like to think I’ve made great strides in my quest to become a first-rate cook. I’ve learned a lot from my mom, who has incredible culinary skills, and from my friends on the Food Network. All right, so maybe I like watching Giada for the eye candy, which is why I’ve suffered some mishaps in the kitchen over the past few years. They’re all still fresh in my mind … maybe a little too fresh.

Frickin’ Chicken I already knew the fire alarm in my apartment building was sensitive by the time sophomore year rolled around. Our next-door neighbors had set it off after overcooking some rice, of all things.

I was convinced, however, that tripping the alarm would never happen to me. I was on my way to becoming the next Mario Batali, and I had chicken Parm on the mind. I got out all the ingredients, cranked the oil up for frying and was ready to get to work. But when I say cranked up that oil, I mean really turned it up. High. To an ungodly temperature. The first battered piece of chicken hits the oil and -- BAM! -- erodes into a charred, deformed lump in seconds flat. And then ... there goes the alarm, and I’m scrambling to air out the room before the fire department shows up … but it’s too late. There’s nothing like the shame of causing your entire apartment building to have to vacate and wait for two fire trucks to arrive.

Convenience Store Cuisine Coming back from studying abroad (where, ironically, I had tasted some of the best food of my life), I had now, yet again, moved into kitchen-free quarters: my fraternity house, a dwelling very sacred to me, but not for any great culinary feats I accomplished while living there. Let’s see ... sandwiches, takeout, microwave dinners, sandwiches, more takeout, microwave soup, sandwiches, delivery pizza, and more sandwiches. It got just a bit repetitive. A couple of us tried setting up a makeshift burner system in one of the empty rooms in our hall, but our attempt failed. Miserably. I’ll admit it, though -- I loved every unhealthy minute of living in that place.

Feel the Burn So I was all set to make an elaborate pasta dish for some friends last October. Since I made it a couple of days prior, I figured all the necessary ingredients were probably still around. But then I realized my coffee-drinking roommates hadn’t replaced their cream I’d so preciously mooched off in the past. So, I had to make a game-time decision: Do I stop what I’m doing and restart the whole process (making me look like a moron when my guests arrive), OR do I make a short run to the store, leaving the water boiling and the onions simmering in a pan?

I chose the latter. I sprinted. Hauled off like an antelope on amphetamines. I even considered stealing the cream just so I could get out of the store faster … before my conscience kicked in. Of course, that same conscience forgot to speak up earlier when I left my apartment abandoned, all by its lonesome, just waiting to burn, baby, burn. While racing back, all I could think about were ways to explain to my friends how it happened. “A guy threw a Molotov cocktail through the window!” I’d exclaim with a horrified look on my face as flames billowed out from our complex. “How he hurled it high enough to reach our floor, I’ll never know … ”

Luckily, I arrived back home to a semi-sizzling pan and water that hadn’t quite boiled over yet. And then I realized we were out of cheese. …