I've been trying to cook real food lately in an attempt to save money and eat healthier. But it's hard when faced with offers of $9.99 pizza delivered to my door, and invitations to join friends for cheese-gobbed Mexican food and a bucket of Coronas. That kind of food translates into 1,000 calories of pure fat and 1 million milligrams of sodium and guilt.
Grocery shopping for one presents problems because supermarkets cater to the Anderson's and their brood of four towheads. But I could still deal with cooking for myself and saving leftovers if I could actually cook. My mother is practically a gourmet chef, and my dad whips up culinary delights on the grill with regularity.
I make scrambled eggs that force friends to quietly hide them under the soggy toast, and once I burned a pot of water.
It's not easy being a single 26-year-old in the kitchen.
Home early one night, I thought it was the right time to test my cooking prowess.
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I decided to make mahi mahi, even though I had never before attempted fish. The package promised it was a flaky white fish, easily broiled or grilled. I found a recipe on the Internet for a marinade that used some of the ingredients I own: those shoved into the depths of my pantry, so rarely used a fine layer of dust covers the cans and bottles like it would the inside of a mausoleum.
The recipe said to broil on high after brushing the thawed (it was still frozen) fillet with a mixture adapted to make use of my meager rations. My version consisted of olive oil, paprika, cilantro and white wine vinegar. I whistled a happy tune, thinking how easy this cooking/eating healthy thing was turning out to be. In my head I was adding up the small sum of calories I would consume that I was likely burning off just by bustling about my kitchen.
I laid the pan inside the oven on top near the broiler and walked away, keeping a close eye on the clock. After three minutes I returned to the kitchen and noticed smoke and large orange flames licking at the oven window. My smoke alarm went off and I grabbed oven mitts to pull the pan out. Flames darted out nearly singeing my bare legs and I had to momentarily yank the alarm off the wall.
The fish was charred, but the fire died after what I can only assume erupted because of my overzealous use of white wine vinegar.
I wasn't planning on trying the flambe' technique, but I seem to have mastered it.
One would think I would stop there, make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and be done with it. But I had a piece of bread with Jarlsberg cheese atop also waiting to be broiled. A firm believer that things don't go wrong twice in a row, I popped it in to the oven. Burned that, too.
People often say that those who can read can cook. Well, I read and write for a living, and nearly ignited a raging inferno in my kitchen. That seems to be a good case against this theory.
But I still ate the food. I figured the fire burned off most of the calories.
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Jana Hollingsworth covers education. E-mail jhollings worth@superiortelegram.com or call (715) 394-4421, ext. 137.
