The gurgling, sloshing, and boiling of clinking test tubes and beakers heated the room and my mind. Flames leaped and crept from the open fire of my Bunsen burner, smoldering chemicals. The stench of the acrid fumes caught in my throat, a roadblock to all my other senses. I froze, my mind shut down due to the stench and torridity overload. I was the mad scientist and this was my secret, subterranean laboratory. How could I have known that my newest brew would blow up in my face?

In all actuality I was in my kitchen watching the pot boil over. Steam rolled up the front of the oven, fogging my vision and rendering me helpless. Water slid from under the lid of the pot, hissing and fizzling when it contacted the crimson rings of heat. I screeched for Igor to assist me. My mother slid into the room, flushed with panic, hollering commands at me.

“Don’t just stand there!!”
“Pick up the damn pot!”
“Ahhhhhh!”

She looked at me like it was my fault that the scorching water had burnt her. Shouldn’t she know to wear her gloves while in the lab? I stood hopelessly with my hands in the air, exasperated, cooking mittens and all.

This was not my first stab at cooking, and unfortunately would not be my last. My cooking skills were, and still are, so underdeveloped that I could probably burn cereal. The list of my failures goes on and on, ranging from smoldering toast to undercooked and crunchy-with-ice vegetables. Lucky for my unwilling test subjects, I have not attempted meat yet. But if you do hear about people mutating from erroneously cooked meat, you know where to find me. Unfortunately, so will the villagers with their torches and pitchforks.

I still cannot grasp how women and men have cooked for thousands of years. I would not have a problem with this predicament except for the fact that being able to cook is such a fundamental skill. If it’s so easy a caveperson could do it, so could I, but I can’t. For now I am safe, with minions in my dorm cafeteria cooking my meals for me, and if I lived alone I could probably survive on straightforward, push one button, microwave meals, and raw foods. Trouble will arise, however if I get married or have a family that I must cook for.

I think the safest option is to marry a man that will cook for me, or a rich man that will hire a cook. Regrettably, finding either alternative might not be so effortless.

Another adverse trial occurred when I struggled to create a simple fruit salad that also contained crunched roman noodles and various spices. Note, this did not even involve cooking, but I still managed to screw it up. By mixing in more than the amount of balsamic vinegar needed (something like a few tablespoons instead of a few teaspoons), I ended up with a tart and bitter bowl of mushy noodles and fruit, very unappetizing if you ask me.

I was so ashamed with this outcome. Not only could I not cook, but I couldn’t even add the right amount of ingredients together. I sulked for hours, mad at my own mindlessness. To be thwarted by a stupid fruit salad! I couldn’t let salad ruin my day so I knew I needed to make a change. Sure, tablespoons and teaspoons might have been a simple mistake, but continuous mistakes in the kitchen are not only distressing but also risky. Without proper knowledge of gadgets in the kitchen someone can get injured. Blistering coils can easily sear a hand, and piping liquids can quickly set more things ablaze or spill onto a child or pet playing at one’s feet. Sans a sound grasp on how a kitchen functions, I am a disaster waiting to happen, burn, and possibly explode.

Besides, I see myself as a strong, independent woman, that is, until my folly is discovered. I cannot avoid my lab all my life from the fear of being burnt. My need to learn to cook stems from my fear of dependency. I refuse to be vulnerable to the kitchen, a place where I know nothing. I do not want to be susceptible anymore to burns, charred food, and half thawed produce. Also, I do not want to have to reckon on someone else to provide nutrition for me. Food keeps us live and working, and having to depend on someone else for that cooked food is essentially the same as counting on them to keep you alive. Some might argue that this is not necessarily true, that depending on others is part of life. And I do believe on depending on one another, but I think it is important to know key aspects of any life or death responsibility. I would feel much more sanguine if I knew some modest principles of cooking. This is a vital skill that no monster or concoction can abolish. One could probably survive off only non-cooked food, but where is the fun in that? Just because there is a way to steer clear from a challenge doesn’t mean that I should. If I ever hope to be a professional, remarkable woman in my field, I think I should be able to cook basic meals. So let the experiments begin!

It is not my goal to be an acclaimed chef or a housewife, attached to the kitchen (not that there is anything wrong with either occupation). I doubt officials would let me near a culinary school anyway! But if they could give me a few pointers, I wouldn’t say no. I at least need to be trained to the point where my cooking won’t kill my experimental subjects. This all starts with my going back down that secret tunnel into my blazing underground lab to resume my fiery experiments. I know I will fail many times, but with the help of my trusty Igor, I am sure that I will be able to conquer my inability to cook.