Fire in the Belly (Kinda)

When I was a junior in college, way back when, I triggered the fire alarm in the small kitchenette across from my single room, where I was cooking (I think) dessert crepes. And so, of course, at some ungodly hour of the night,, the town fire engines arrived on the scene, the whole building was evacuated, and I wondered out loud to all who would listen, “who was the fucking idiot who let the popcorn burn, again.”

I can say this now because I’m fairly sure the statute of limitations on non-premeditated arson has expired.

It’s funny (read: “interesting”) how these moments of shame stay with you all of your life. And I’ve had my share of such incidents, many emanating from the kitchen. I remember to this day how those chocolate crepes I was preparing that night gave one of my dorm mates a terrible case of the runs. I remember fucking up a friend’s kosher kitchen somewhat awful — but the statute of limitations is still in play here, so all I can offer are only the headline details. I remember to this day fixing my first five-alarm sauteed broccoli dish for some newly-minted Israeli friends and just blowing them out of the water with the heat. And so on.

Needless to say, my wall of culinary shame is a fairly extensive laundry list.

But you know what? We learn and grow from this shit. And what doesn’t kill us, it is said, makes us stronger. What can I say? I feel so empowered knowing I will never ever ever set fire to my dormitory again. At least not in this life.