Whenever my mother made me dinner in high school, she’d remind me that when I went off to college I’d need to learn to cook. But as my freshman, sophomore, and junior years slipped by and I still hadn’t so much as toasted a Pop-Tart, the prospect started to seem less inevitable. Freshman year had offered a staggering array of dining-hall options, and living in my sorority house sophomore year meant delicious meals prepared by our chef. Abroad in Paris junior year, the woman I lived with immediately sensed my fear at the sight of a French oven and offered to cook for us.
But when I finally moved into my own apartment at the start of senior year, my airtight budget forced me to take the plunge. At Wegmans, I picked up a package of chicken breasts and some green beans. That night, using a borrowed frying pan and a can of cooking spray, I put the chicken on the stove. Ten minutes later, it looked ready to eat. Each side was browned to perfection and it smelled heavenly. I added some green beans straight from the bag to each plate and proudly called my roommates in for dinner. I watched each of their faces as they took the first bite—expecting surprise, admiration, maybe even an impromptu round of applause. But they each spit out the chicken in disgust.
“This is seared!” one of them yelled, spitting my hard work into her napkin.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Isn’t that good? Like seared tuna?”
She put down her utensils and patted my shoulder. “Seared means cooked on the outside and raw on the inside. You forgot to cut the breasts in half so they’d cook through.” I cut open my own piece to check. Sure enough, the inside was completely raw—not only bloody, but practically translucent.
“Well, what about the green beans?” I asked. “You can at least eat those.”
“Oh, Amanda,” my roommate said. “Didn’t you know green beans aren’t supposed to be served raw?”
Twenty-four hours later, I was back at Wegmans. Head bowed, undercover behind oversized sunglasses and a Cornell baseball cap, I handed my purchases over to the same cashier. He smiled as he rung up my shameful bounty: twenty Lean Cuisine frozen dinners.
— Amanda First ’12