Now You're Cooking

One commenter liked this piece the best. Pretty much everyone else who read it thought it was too weird.

Ultimately I rejected this story on the grounds that it was pushing the definition of “memoir” too far, given that it was not an account of a specific experience and in fact digresses at length on proto-philosophical flights of fancy.

The version below was edited to exceed the original 1,000 word limit (currently 1,104).


In the early days – and I mean the early days, before the Internet – eating was treacherous business. Finding sustenance was literally a matter of life and death, and the whole notion of “comfort food” was about as familiar as “power steering.”

Man hunted and foraged for his own meals, passing these skills onto their sons early, such that the central preoccupation of most cave-parents was whether their son would “get in to a good forest.” And when a boy came of a certain age, his village would send him out into the wild with some rudimentary weapons and a quasi-religious ceremony featuring a corny prehistoric DJ and a theme like “Woolly Mammoth” or “Invention of Fire.”

Things are different today. Most of us let multinational agribusiness conglomerates do our hunting and foraging for us. The only thing we really have to worry about anymore is whether this food contains gluten, whatever that is. I often imagine that all the gluten we are removing from our food is being weaponized by the U.S. government, just in case we ever need to invade Seattle.

For most folks, food is now the only safe harbor from existential anxiety. And Macaroni and Cheese has emerged as the most comfortable of comfort foods and the contemporary analog to that ancient youthful rite of passage.

Macaroni and Cheese was invented by Yankee Doodle, who came to a town (thought to be south Philadelphia) and whose original recipe called for one part feather to one part cap. Benjamin Franklin ordered it “Wit Wiz,” and a classic American dish was born. The recipe has evolved over the years, such that it has developed its own warning color as a defense against predators.

And now the recipe has been streamlined to the point where it has become the first “meal” a young person learns how to cook. This is important because no one knows more about existential anxiety than the American pre-teenager, perpetually subject to the callous whims of peer pressure, authority figures and toxic hormone levels, they crave comfort and control. As if to meet this need perfectly, macaroni and cheese has become every teenager’s first step toward self-determination. And rickets.

I must have been 13 or so when I cooked my first batch – from the familiar blue box, not from scratch. (There was no scratching involved whatsoever. Incidentally, if your cooking regularly involves scratching, consult a physician.)

Fortunately, I was already well-schooled in the cooking of pasta, the first and most vital step of the macaroni and cheese recipe. The most essential skill was patience, since my parents’ stovetop was of the electric variety, which meant that boiling water took what seemed like several hours. As it is said, “a watched pot never boils.” And just in case you’re curious, it doesn’t work with mixing bowls, coffee mugs or mason jars, either. Avoid plastic. Just forget about wicker.

And then, once you dumped the pasta in the water, it took forever to cook thoroughly. My mother used to say that you could throw a string of spaghetti against the wall, and if it stuck, it was done. Unfortunately, the small, tubular noodles were much more difficult to retrieve individually than a long string of pasta, and I would find myself hovering over the pot, desperately and fruitlessly trying to snag one of the noodles with the tynes of my fork, a practice that would accurately foreshadow my teenage romantic life.

Once the pasta was done, it was time for the butter and milk. The instructions specified a quarter-cup of butter and a quarter-cup of milk, which I believed to be a ratio carefully calibrated to promote good health and vitality. Now I realize it is intended as a rough guideline intended to delay coronary disease.

I would carefully measure out the butter, largely ignoring those hash marks on the wrapper, which are always warped and off-center and seem way more problematic than just eyeballing it. Instead of bothering with those arbitrary and misleading measurements, the butter and margarine people might as well just print a disclaimer giving up on the American educational system.

Additionally, my parents raised me to be super-careful about leaving milk out and letting it spoil, so I got in the habit of leaving the milk carton in the fridge until the last possible moment before hurriedly measuring a quarter-cup into the pot and then quickly putting the carton back. I realize, of course, that this makes zero sense, given that I’m stirring the cold milk into a warm pot. But years of guilt-based discipline have conditioned me to regard milk sitting out on the counter as a normal person might regard a smallpox outbreak.

The last and most essential step was the addition of the cheese-like flavor compound, which is as apt a symbol of American scientific ingenuity as has ever been developed – the modern-day equivalent of magic beans, except with much less soluble fiber. Through the miracle of science, milk and cheese cultures are transformed to a crystalline powder, preserved and packaged for my convenience, then brought to life again in my saucepan.

With a wooden spoon as my magic wand, I gradually added the powder into the pot while stirring, careful to maintain an even mixture with the noodles rather than dumping the whole thing on top and letting it “trickle down.” While this “trickle down” approach was widely discredited in the late 1980s, a conservative subset of chefs have recently decried equitable distribution as “culinary socialism” and threatened to filibuster dessert.

Once an even consistency was achieved finally the dish was complete. (As Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of bad macaroni and cheese.”) Many folks add chicken, or sliced wieners, or broccoli (presumably as a garnish) to the dish. But in that moment, I was eager to savor the simple purity of my creation while my Mom cleaned up.

It made for a simple, satisfying meal. But as I grew older, I came to realize that the comfort wasn’t in the macaroni and cheese itself; it was in the knowledge that the macaroni and cheese was always there for me, just ten minutes away. It is not just fuel, but emotional sustenance.

Obviously, macaroni and cheese is not a substitute for love, though it is a highly effective love delivery system (and, incidentally, an adequate substitute for roofing insulation).

Learning to love oneself is a crucial part of growing up. In a way, I became a man when I first cooked macaroni and cheese. Our caveman ancestors would be proud. Although they would probably be frightened by the color.

Love in the Wings

This piece was my runner-up. It’s clearly more of a traditional memoir than the macaroni & cheese piece and is probably the most “relatable” of my three drafts. A few people liked this one best, including my wife, and one other person who argued that its “pathos and bittersweetness … exert a stronger pull.”

Then again, one person found it rather pedestrian, saying, “I can't even get through [it] without checking my Facebook page every other word I'm so bored by it.”

This one eventually lost out because I thought the ending was kind of weak and the overall tone was more wistful than lighthearted.

The version below was edited to exceed the original 1,000 word limit (currently 1,076) and includes pictures..


This is going to sound like one of those stories about the crazy things that a guy will do for a girl. It’s true that I would never have been in that mess if not for The Girl, and it’s true that this was just the first in a series of events seemingly choreographed by The Girl to destroy me. But the real villain of this story is the spotlight, and how hot it burns.

In the summer after my junior year of college, I was smitten with a woman who held a leadership position on the alumni outreach club, the primary purpose of which is basically kissing up to major donors – the kind of dedicated philanthropists who endow professorships and have memorial urinals named after them.

Since I was pursuing my own special kind of “targeted outreach” to The Girl, I signed up as an auxiliary volunteer for the annual June “Thank You, Alumni! Say, We Could Really Use a New Podiatry Wing” Event. For me, this pretty much meant inconsequential jobs like stuffing gift bags and scheming possible places to sneak away and make out.

On Saturday afternoon, however, we were to host the keynote luncheon on the main quad and I was tasked with supporting the First Aid and cooling station. The temperature was expected to touch 95 degrees that day, with humidity approaching the consistency of plasma, and the organizers were concerned that some of the more elderly alumni might die before they had a chance to amend their wills. But before I had the chance to nurse any wealthy benefactors back to mere infirmity, The Girl came to me with a unique opportunity.

At the luncheon we were to unveil a brand-new costume for the university mascot, the Yellowjacket – a costume subsidized by alumni contributions. But the volunteer mascot performer was ill, or had perhaps melted in his car on the way over. “Would you be willing to fill in?” she asked. I quickly accepted, the way a dog quickly accepts a ride to the vet.

Not only was I saving The Girl’s day, but it was a chance to recapture the glory of my youth as a drama nerd. At the risk of immodesty, I confess I was a pretty big deal back in the day, bringing almost inappropriate levels of sensuality to the role of Nathan Detroit in “Guys and Dolls.” But alas, after high school I was scared away from the collegiate theater program by all the cigarette smoking and artistic integrity.

My adrenaline surged as I imagined delivering the mascot performance of a lifetime, so impressing my audience that they would insist on repeat Yellowjacket performances, propelling me to a full-time Yellowjacket gig, which I would then parlay into a guest Yellowjacket appearance on a Sportscenter commercial and, ultimately, a successful run the U.S. Senate.

And then put on the brand-new costume for the first time.

The head alone was 25 pounds of thick fiberglass and black fur, attached a by body harness – like a giant athletic supporter – presumabily designed to stabilize the head for gymnastic maneuvers, linebacker collisions, etc. The Girl, along with the school’s alumni affairs representative, appeared baffled by the various bands and buckles as they strapped me in.

Then they wrapped me in a thick polyester-and-mohair jumpsuit, along with puffy yellow mittens and black slippers. Already the headpiece was getting stuffy, but I could see and breathe clearly enough through the black mesh eyeballs. And what I saw in the mirror was something less than the heroic image I had envisioned.



While I was nominally a “yellowjacket,” there was nothing at all fearsome about me, except possibly the long, pointed “stinger” protruding from my headpiece at eye level. I looked more like a fat bumblebee, a cross between “The Fly” and Jack-in-the-Box. The only sensuality I evoked was a mild itchy sensation.

The alumni affairs guy gave me three rules: (1) don’t break, tear, soil or otherwise damage the suit. (2) Absolutely no gestures that might be construed as lewd, violent, offensive or otherwise inconsistent with the university’s family-friendly mission and spirit. And (3), no talking, in keeping with mascot tradition, although onomatopoeic “buzzing” would be permitted.

They carted me out to the luncheon tent around dessert time with great fanfare. As the alma mater played, I sprinted down the aisle entreating high-fives from the alumni, who sat unmoved and mildly confused.

The Girl introduced me personally to several very important individuals and couples, to which I could only respond with enthusiastic pantomimes like “thumbs up!”, “put up your dukes!”, “my arms are crossed!” and “let’s do the Twist!”

The alumni response was tepid, perhaps because they were stuffed with salmon and actively hickory-smoking under the midday sun. Desperate to raise the energy level, I started dancing with some of the children in attendance.

My sweating quickly became more profuse and my breathing more labored as my dance moves slowed to the point where I was simply swaying back and forth. It wasn’t until I stopped dancing that I realized how dizzy I was. It gradually occurred to me that I might be in some physical danger, but out of actorial professionalism I was reluctant to vocalize it or gesticulate too wildly. The last thing I remember is raising my hand, as if to say “Hey, wait a minute.” Unfortunately, one of the larger, stronger kids misunderstood this as “High five!”

I woke up at the First Aid tent, with The Girl pouring cold water over me. It’s still unclear whether I had heat “stroke” or “exhaustion” or whatever; all I know is that I was so foul and sweaty, I couldn’t determine if I had in fact soiled the costume.

Glancing inside the giant helmet/death-mask steaming next to me, I saw a small black lump inside the crown. A closer look revealed a battery compartment and an on/off switch with the label “ventilation fan.” The Girl looked at me, said “Oops, sorry,” and smiled her get-out-of-jail-free smile.

We dated for a year or so after that and had some laughs. With her devious charm she my heart aflame, until the damned thing was burnt to cinders. It occurs to me now that our whole relationship – like my acting career – was born and died of too much heat.

Sadly, the heart has no ventilation fan. And some of us will just never be cool.

Falling 'n' Love

This was my official entry for the contest. It’s actually a pretty substantial edit of a much longer journal entry I wrote way back in 2005. It was about four times as long and included a lot of stuff about my brother (who was with me on this adventure) as well as some additional excerpts from the waiver form I signed.

My biggest concern about this piece was that it was sort of conventional and “obvious,” such that there might actually be a number of skydiving entries for the judges to sift through. But in the end I thought it was simply the funnier piece. It received the most support from my peer reviewers, although I think the story still makes my mom nervous, even just reading it seven years later.

This is the exact version I submitted, 1,000 words exactly.


I’m not by nature a thrill-seeker. I’m perfectly content with the thrills that I find inadvertently, like an unusually well-blended smoothie. But skydiving always seemed like one of those things everyone should do before dying (if not *right* before dying), like running a marathon or falling in love. Skydiving seemed easier than those other things, since skydiving allows gravity to do most of the work and does not require high levels of personal charm.

I was in Las Vegas – where extreme sports like skydiving and bungee jumping and prostitution comprise a cottage industry, with ads promising Heart-Pumping Excitement! and Free Shuttle Service! – when I arranged a “tandem” jump, in which a novice skydiver is strapped to the front of an experienced skydiver who knows how to operate an altimeter and parachute without the use of adult diapers.

When the shuttle picked me up the next morning, the driver gave me and six other suckers a clipboard, a pen, and the scariest document I have ever read. It began:

“ALL FORMS OF SKYDIVING, AVIATION & ALL RELATED ACTIVITIES ARE DANGEROUS & CAN RESULT IN MAJOR PERMANENT INJURY, PAIN AND SUFFERING, &/or DEATH.”

Pain? Until I read this clause, I had just assumed that if things went wrong, it was The End. Suddenly I was worried about spending my last five conscious minutes as a semi-solid mass.

The next two pages were almost entirely about giving up the right to sue the company, its related entities, its employees, their pets, etc. ever again in perpetuity – while acknowledging that the "covered activities" may be subject to "singular or collective inabilities, failures, shortcomings, bad judgements, wrong decisions, mistakes, actions or inactions, errors or omissions, physical &/or mental blunders & all forms of oversight & simple or gross negligence.”

Forget death and pain. At that point I started worrying about my mom, and the possibility of having my remains mailed home in a manila envelope, along with my signed waiver preventing her from suing anyone for the postage due.

Eventually we rolled into a dusty airstrip. Milling about was a ragtag crew of Skydiving Professionals, most of whom appeared to have just awakened from sleeping in the hangar.

Our “training” consisted of a 20-minute video demonstrating the basic skydiving maneuver: The Banana Position, in which the novice jumper curls his or her legs backwards between his or her partner’s legs while tilting the head back. We also learned such important techniques as the Climb-Out, Clearing the Ears, and No Touching Anything!!!. At the end, a sober and serious man talked about how tandem skydiving is an experimental method that is currently being sanctioned only for study purposes, and noted that a full legitimization of the process is expected sometime in the early 1990s.

We were assigned jumpsuits, harnesses, gloves and goggles, as well as a padded “helmet” that would not have protected my head against an errant bird, much less the hard Nevada earth. I was then introduced to my tandem jumper, Ace, who exuded a shaggy, Zen-like confidence and the faint odor of Red Bull.

While Ace and his fellow experts geared up, I stared at the plane on the tarmac. It looked like it was made from tin foil and might tip over from a stiff wind, which incidentally seemed to be growing stiffer, though that may simply have been the tingling in my extremities.

Once we all filed in, the plane shook to life. We took off, climbing, climbing and climbing as the sliding door rattled violently. My thoughts turned to the legend of Icarus, who flew too close to the sun, damaged his parachute and never got to say goodbye to his girlfriend.

As rote procedure gave way to the reality of my situation, my brain initiated its full-scale panic sequence, which resembles Kubler-Ross’s Five Stages of Grief, only with a preliminary pants-wetting phase.

DENIAL: “You can quit now. Nobody will ever know,” I told myself. “You have nothing to prove. Gravity is soooo 16th Century.”

One by one, the jumpers slid along the bench and tumbled out of the plane. I was the only one left, creating a powerful peer-pressurized vacuum.

ANGER: “What is wrong with these people? Am I the only rational person left? What moron even came up with this macho bullshAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHHHHHH!”

Ace pushed us both through the door. “The Banana Position” became a novel afterthought as my legs cramped into a painful rictus.

BARGAINING: “Please oh please let me survive this and I promise I will eat more vegetables and give change to panhandlers and file my taxes early and vote for Obama.” Though not exactly a praying man, I thought that maybe God might be listening because I was so nearby and screaming so loud.

The air whooshed into my lungs and my goggles and every crease of my body, rendering me literally senseless.

DEPRESSION: “I can’t make out anything up here – not Hoover Dam, not Lake Mead … I can’t even identify solid Earth. Also, I’m suffocating in mid-air while plummeting toward certain death. This was a bad idea.”

I felt a jolt and let my exhausted body go limp. The parachute burst into action and my free-fall became a gentle morning glide over the desert.

ACCEPTANCE: “I’m alive! And everything is beautiful! I love you, Earth! I love you, God! I love you, Ace!” Gradually it occurred to me that I had just paid $300 for a ten-minute flight and two minutes of sheer terror, but I accepted that, too.

It would be poetic to say that skydiving is like falling in love. Unfortunately, this is not true. They share some common elements, mostly relating to the collapse of one’s autonomic nervous system. But falling in love is based on mutual affection and respect, rather than mere gravity, and typically costs way more than $300.

Still, there was something strangely transcendent about it. For a cheap thrill, skydiving somehow brought me closer to humanity, and nature, and God. (But, thankfully, not too close.)