After two weeks of midterms, I have happily escaped to my parent’s cabin. At home, I have three roommates in a small apartment with paper-thin walls, so a house to myself is a welcome change. I don’t have to be back until Monday, so I should have four days of bliss. I would, but I’m hungry.
A few weeks ago, I decided completely out of the blue that I need to learn to cook. Billions of people successfully cook every day; surely I could do the same. I filled my grocery cart with fresh produce, spices, and uncooked meat. A week and a dozen failed attempts later, I found myself slinking into the kitchen, yet again, after peanut butter– the one food I had that didn’t require cooking. After a date pointed out that peanut butter cannot sustain me forever, I began cooking again, very. cautiously. (Looking back, I’m not sure why I listened. He’s allergic to peanuts. What does he know?) By the grace of some higher being, my food was edible. Not something I would serve to company, but edible. So when I was able to leave for the cabin, I threw clothes in a bag, grabbed a few unread books, and packed what was left in my fridge with a small prayer.
This morning, I woke up, showered, and descended upon the fridge. I was determined. I was ready. I was foiled by a pilot light. The cabin has an old stove/oven that uses gas. I have no idea in this world how one works this infernal thing. I’m beginning to gain respect for people like Mrs. Cleaver. I grew up with an electric stove, and the one in my apartment is electric too. I spent over an hour looking in the stove, under the stove, behind the stove, etc. I finally broke down and bought a dollar cheeseburger. I’m sure Wikipedia could have saved me a lot of time and frustration, but the cabin has no internet connection or cell phone signal. I’m hungry, stumped, and fairly certain I would be one of the first to go in a postapocalyptic society.