Wiping the remnants of Colonel Mustard's 'stache off my face, I assured myself in the mirror that Halloween brunch for my friends was a good idea. Stumbling about my darkened room, I gathered the grocery bags of ingredients and then sat on my floor to make sure I had everything. Can of sweet potatoes, flour, loaf of bread, bacon - I cursed madly as I realized that bacon should have gone in the fridge the day before with the eggs and milk. Flinging open my mini fridge, I shoved the bacon towards the back, where it would most certainly cool down quickly.
Still operating in the dimly lit room - my roommate opts not to see Saturday mornings - I texted several of my friends to come eat the delicious food I was about to concoct. Running into a few hallmates on my way to the kitchen, I passed on the same invitation. Upon entering Kellogg's kitchen, I noticed that it was fairly barren. I'd known that utensils and kitchen supplies were limited, but it was still semi-disheartening to discover that I was not, in fact, in my own kitchen. At home, I know where the cutting board is and which knife is best suited for chopping onions. Here, I saw neither a cutting board nor a knife. My first college cooking experience was fated to be a challenge - but not one that I couldn't handle.
My menu: sweet potato biscuits, french toast stuffed with sweetened ricotta cheese and scrambled eggs with peppers, tomatoes and onions. Yeah, there should have been some meat and fruit and maybe some juice. But my lukewarm bacon didn't hold that much appeal and my brunch guests didn't seem to want more than what I offered.
I borrowed two measuring cups from my senior resident adviser: a cup and 2/3 cup. I'm pretty sure that my biscuits turned out so dry because I confused these two cups while "sifting together" my "dry ingredients." And I ignored the step that called for "buttermilk." And I mashed the sweet potatoes and brown sugar and milk with a spoon instead of "blending" with an electric mixer. Surprisingly, the biscuits were edible, and although they were not the best representation of a sweet potato's taste, I don't think any of my guests decided to swear off yams for the rest of their lives.
Compared to my biscuits, my french toast was gourmet. Gourmet in the sense that it tasted like everything a heart attack between two slices of bread should taste like. I used Italian bread because I figured that would be thick enough to handle the ricotta cheese filling and egg and milk dunk. I urge all readers to make this French toast now, before it's too late. For the filling: half a cup ricotta cheese, two tablespoons confectioners sugar, and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla. Spread it between two slices of bread, sandwich it (a cooking verb I just created), dunk - because dipping is lame - in three eggs, 2/3 cup milk and throw on the frying pan. Voila. My guests informed me that their toast was so good because it had "heaven" in the middle.
Eggs are eggs. Upon reflection, mine probably would have been better if I'd added some of the ricotta cheese. At home, I'll throw some cream cheese with chives in my scrambled eggs and then they're so good they don't even need ketchup. I remained civilized during this brunch and left my ketchup in my room, even though I know my eggs would have been better with liquid lycopene. The tomatoes, onions and peppers livened up a typical breakfast dish. Unfortunately, I now have extra tomatoes, onion, and peppers that will end up rotting in my fridge but I guess it's just another consequence of dorm cooking.
The food was good enough, but what I enjoyed most was the challenge of cooking in a kitchen sans, well, basic amenities. This is a dorm kitchen and there's no point in stocking it with supplies that will hardly ever get used. So, I made do with a spatula, large spoon, small spoon, fork, borrowed bowls and measuring cups, frying pan, baking sheet, paper plates - yes, cutting boards - and LOTS of paper towels. As obstacles arose - and they did every few minutes - I tackled them with poise and grace. Which at one point looked like me whipping my shirt off to take the biscuit pan out of the oven. Who knew oven mitts could be missed? My sister, the recipe reader to my biscuit mixing and ricotta cheese whipping, cheered me on from a table nearby. My other guests did not witness most of my struggles, so I'll continue to think that I maintained a respectably authoritative cook figure in their eyes.
Clean up required another roll of paper towels. My friends lingered, and as I wiped down the flour-spattered countertops, they recounted their tales of boysfromlastnight. It was the same type of conversation we would have had at O'Hill brunch, but this time, towel and knife in hand, I felt more apt to give advice. It is empowering to be in charge of what you eat. It's a little something, but it's still something. My confidence has been wavering of late - often because of those boysfromlastnight - but this venture into a realm I know I can conquer was entirely beneficial to my well-being. And it certainly added to the well-being of my well-fed brunch attendees.
Connelly's column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at c.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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