Snap, Crackle, and/or Pop

Some days I make the tried-and-true "simple rustic fare", like roast chicken stuffed with lemon. Some days I bake bread, trying to understand the science of gluten through my fingers. Some days I break out my exotic side and braise lamb shanks studded with cloves of garlic and crusted with garam masala, with mint yogurt on the side. And some days, like today, I make Rice Krispie Treats.
After not eating them for years, I had a sudden craving months ago, and have re-discovered a strong emotional attachment to them. They're not the first thing I ever cooked - I honestly can't remember what that was - but they were the source of one early and important cooking lesson.

I grew up in a family that required I receive confirmation before I could be in charge of my own religious direction, and their church required ten hours of volunteer service as part of the process. This brought me to a weekly dinner for women in need.

The kitchen was off a church recreation hall. (Not my family's church, but a nearby one, of a different denomination.) There was a restaurant-caliber stove and enough counter space for eight people to work at once, though most of the time there were just two of us.

The woman who ran the dinner was named Beth. She was in her early twenties and a recent culinary school dropout. She ran the dinner herself, using food from the church's food pantry and supplementing it with donations and her own money. One night we served thirty women on twenty dollars and a whole lot of food pantry butter. When I questioned the copious amounts of butter we used and if it wasn't unhealthy, Beth reflected and said "This is the only time this week some of these women will eat fresh vegetables, or any vegetables at all. We're serving lean chicken, lentils - it's what we have, and there's enough good to balance the bad. You'll drive yourself crazy if you try to make everything perfect."

When I arrived for my first day at the kitchen, Beth nodded towards a counter. There were three boxes of Rice Krispies, two sticks of butter, and three bags of marshmallows. "Start with dessert."

Smart move on her part. I assume she wanted to assess my kitchen skills, and Rice Krispie Treats are a great choice for the beginner cook. They require exactly three ingredients and don't need cooking to a set internal temperature to kill bacteria. No worrying about leavening. They're almost foolproof except for one thing - the heat.

I'd never made such a large batch before, and stirring the cereal into the melted marshmallow took longer than I expected. As I stirred, I saw patches of browner-than-expected Rice Krispies running through the mass. I know now that my burner was turned up too high, but at the time, I just panicked and yelped "Uh-oh, I think I burned it!"

Beth looked over my shoulder. "Nope. Just take it off the heat right away and press it into the pan. If anyone notices, call them Caramel Krispie Treats." We served them following a dinner of vegetable-heavy chicken pot pie and they were a hit.

That kitchen was where I learned to take culinary risks. Most of the time your cooking mistakes can be salvaged. Over-salted soup can be watered down, or you can add another serving of vegetables. Dry meat can be saved for another day, chopped, and added to a sauce. Broken omelets are just scrambled eggs with stuff in them. If your cake cracks in half, stick it back together with frosting.

I volunteered for several months, long after I'd fulfilled the confirmation requirement, gone through the motions of the ceremony, and after the argument I had with my family about no longer attending their church. After that first Thursday I was given other tasks. Beth was a patient teacher, and she taught me the best way to chop an onion, a half-dozen ways to cook summer squash (it was a bumper crop that year, and cheap), and her secret for non-greasy meatloaf. I eventually quit so I could be part of a school play, but I still think of that kitchen every time I'm teaching someone how to hold a knife correctly, every time I begin to panic about a dish looking wrong, every time I reach for the butter.