Aluminum Chef

Scrambled eggs, I've got covered. French toast, you'd better believe it. My grilled cheese rocks hard. Anything else had better come in a box or a can with directions on it.

I've always been able to mooch a home-cooked meal from somebody. In college, Jon's 6-can casserole, Jenn's dumplings, Tarek's steaks, and Nenad's pizza kept me well-fed (not to mention the semester I dated a bake-ophile ;-). I'm still mooching now; my aunt&uncle are spectacular cooks (he's a restaurant manager, and she grew up cooking for her 6 brothers), my friend Mark is a master of soul food, and, of course, I'm lucky to be living close to my parents' house - there's nothing quite like your own Mom's cooking.

At any given time, my house has peanut butter, jelly, and a loaf of bread that usually becomes something of a biological experiment before I even finish it. I'm too busy pillaging other people's homes for food; sometimes I wonder if my roommates even remember what I look like. It's working, for now, but if I ever want to leave Minnesota (without going on the "Super-Size Me" diet), I'd better learn to cook.

At least I'm not alone in my cooking-impairedness; my Dad shares my dazzling cooking repertoire. Once, when I was little, my Mom went on a trip with her choir, and left him to hold down the fort. My sister and I loved it; we had Burger King night, KFC night, french toast night, Burger King night again... mmm, good times!