1. 3 Eggs (One of the first tastes of independence I had was experienced vicariously when Kyoko moved into a studio apartment across from campus in a complex that was the same stormy gray as Daniel's pickup, the vehicle of choice when ferrying ourselves from my dorm room to Kyoko's new apartment as she took the first few days to set everything up. The bare room felt like the cool, hidden interior of some long-skeleton'd whale, dubiously lit by only two or three candles and boasting a corner of collapsed boxes, as several more stubbornly guarded their contents in the kitchen. My first impression of living on one's own took this form: the form of acceptance, in which we embrace some ingrained responsibility to revive old, hollow spaces. As I stepped foot between the salt-sentried jambs of her front door — she had placed two bowls of salt on either side of the doorway to ward off evil spirits — I secretly, involuntarily laid claim upon the space. It was impossible to walk into that apartment and not be consumed by the vacuous vacancy, as it had been prepared for occupancy in much the same way a canvas is stretched and gessoed for painting. Each corner of the apartment was occupied by a small white object and as I explored, I asked Kyoko why she'd placed eggs around the room, to which she explained that the innocuous orbs "absorb any evil or inauspicious spirits that might be lingering," and I thought about that as I sat against the far wall near a corner and imagined myself inside a huge, apartment-sized egg.)
2. 1 1/2 c. milk (Jeff was in the kitchen with his back to the door because Ken's sink was on the opposite side of the room and Jeff was peeling potatoes for one of his culinary concoctions. I took advantage of the situation to slip into the room unnoticed. Mashed potatoes. I could see a carton of milk on the counter, mouth partially agape, from which I was sure Jeff had been taking large, unobserved gulps through only moments before and I shuddered, remembering a story he'd related to me in a drunken enthusiasm about the ex-friend who'd house-sat for his ex-boyfriend and jerked off into the Ranch salad dressing in retaliation for years of jealousy and bitterness harbored after a bad breakup. Motives aside, we'd whooped up the topic and brainstormed various foods and condiments that would serve as equally unnoticeable receptacles for such heinous activity — mayonnaise, milk, sour cream — and the memory had left me with a palpable apprehension that arose whenever I took the helm of the kitchen or cooked with dairy foods. The stereo was on and as he finished the potatoes, I drew up behind him, reaching around to grab his crotch, the glass measuring cup dropping from his grip and making cracking contact with the tile floor, thick white liquid thrown across our legs and the lower cabinetry.)
3. 1 tbsp. all-purpose flour (I probably yelled and cursed at Lindsay a little more than I should have, because flour isn't exactly the easiest ingredient to work with, but she had a habit of being careless and this was something easy to point out, easy to criticize, because it was all over the goddamned kitchen. And she was burning the stove liners. The Grace to my Will, Lindsay and I had moved in together after meeting at work and hitting it off as friends. As in most situations of the kind, we hadn't been able to make that camraderie carry over into our lives as roommates and so that yelling and cursing and criticizing was likely the downfall of our friendship. Later on, I was making dinner for my father one night and we had an argument over whether to use flour or corn starch in the gravy and I stopped mid-sentence because it occurred to me that I was incredibly critical and argumentative, particularly with those I love and care about, and as I looked down at the innocuous bag of flour on the counter, I realized that I could let go of my need to be right and clean and critical and just enjoy the brief time we have together.)
4. 1/4 c. chopped green onions (I had a garden when I was eight and fancied myself somewhat of a green thumb, despite never getting anything to sprout other than a patch of thick green onions that would perfume the neighborhood for about four weeks straight in the summer heat. After the first two or three years, however, I either lost interest or had given up because the fragrant fuckers began to grow wildly and out of control, sprouting new bulbs in all directions and covering a good sized corner of the back yard. Years later, after I'd filled out and was able to handle the old-fashioned push mower, I was delegated to the back yard for grass upkeep. Whenever I was feeling particularly lazy, I'd mow the patch and kick back on the rocks with a glass of lemonade as the pungent odor swirled above me in the sun-brewed air. Sometimes we'd harvest a handful during barbeques and wash them to garnish hamburgers. My dad would dip them in salt, but I liked to eat them raw because I could taste the earth and the sun in each bitter bite; they tasted like summer.)
5. 1/2 c. bacon, cooked and crumbled (The summer of my junior year in high school, Jason and Adam would swap turns driving to Fort Collins where we were taking summer classes (and where I'd later help discover a treatment for tortoise respiratory infections, which is a story in itself). It's not a good drive, but I ended up sleeping most of the way in the back seat of Adam's brown Chevy, alerted to the approaching college town by our fragrant pass through Greeley, appropriately known as Cow Town. And then there was exit 254 and Johnson's Corner. Stopping there had become somewhat of a ritual. Adam had a habit of hyperbolizing the most mundane things — this truck stop, for example — and describing everything else under the sun as "bunk." Jason just went with the flow. When I read the part in Coin Locker Babies where Anemone runs into the two guys fucking in the truck stop bathroom, I always think of this place. She returns to her table and resumes eating her food, which in our case would have been chicken fried steak dinners with mashed potatoes, corn, biscuits and a side of bacon. Everything else on the menu was bunk.)
6. 1 c. shredded cheese (Your earliest memories aren't really like the memories you form as an adult. Less like your mature streams of continuous occurrence, they tend to linger in the dusty storage of your mind like discrete snapshots. They are certainly less event oriented and more self centered. Like the memory I have of visiting the Wonderbread factory when I was four, something I don't specifically remember doing, but that I've pieced together from photographs lying around in my head: the smell of dough, what-seemed-like-miles-and-miles of stainless steel machinery, the feeling of being very hungry and a cheese grater — a gigantic silver funnel, large enough to fit a few of us kids with room for a puppy or two. The grater is one of the larger photographs I have of this trip, probably due to a partial recording I have in my head of our tour guide explaining the risks of operating the machine — something I can't imagine an adult telling to four-year-olds, but the only explanation for why I refused to eat shredded cheese until I was nine.)
7. pastry pie crust (Ed had driven to my dorm room in the middle of a snowstorm right as my first semester of college was ending, and he somehow convinced me to transfer to the big city and get an apartment with him after a rather nasty breakup with his boyfriend. I agreed. It was my first taste of city living: a corner apartment with working neighbors in suits every morning, the sound of traffic as the metropolis awoke. Our apartment was in a renovated 12-story office building with a purple-glass facade and a profusely gay tenantry, and because I didn't have a car, I ended up stayed home most of the time and, at one point, learned to bake. One of my favorites was Key Lime Pie. Still is, actually. I even learned to make my own pastry crusts. Feeling particularly Martha-Stewart one day, I decided to bake several pies at once and deliver them to some of the cute, new guys that had moved in upstairs. I worked feverishly for several hours in the heat of our small apartment kitchen, and when I was done I stood, satisfied, over five, slightly toasted, meringue-topped pies, ready for delivery. I went around to the various apartments, pies in tote, and knocked but was greeted by not one cute, new neighbor. I looked at my watch; it was only 3:13. They were all at work, of course, and so I carefully laid a pie on each doorstep for their no-doubt-surprised return later that evening. A few days passed and I smiled to myself every time I passed one of them in the hallway, wondering what they'd thought, if they'd yet enjoyed my hard work, or maybe if they'd planned some sort of party or favor in return. Perhaps they knew it was me, but simply didn't have the courage to say anything. My mind rampaged through a plethora of hypotheticals. As I passed cute boy from room 701 on my way out the back door to the bus stop, I caught a glimpse of something glinty in the dumpster and peeked in to find not one plastic-wrapped pie, but four, lying in disarray and somewhat crushed from the fall of several stories, but otherwise intact. My heart gained twenty pounds as I stood there in shock. I counted again: one, two, three, four. I picked up a stick and turned over the neighboring garbage bags, but no fifth. Hm. I knew all five had been collected. Perhaps it was thrown out earlier? I shook my head. Trash was collected once a week. The thought stayed with me throughout the day: which neighbor had kept their pie? I savored the thought and decided that if one of them had enjoyed my work, it was worth it. I smiled and tossed my disappointment into the dumpster along with the remaining pies. Now, if only I could figure out which one...)

Mike was going to be home any minute and I was still pressing the dough into the pie tin, so I worked my thumbs fervently and flipped the oven up to 375 degrees. The apartment had been a model and had come with silver mixing bowls, rarely used since we'd moved him in, and so I pulled one off the shelf. I cracked three eggs into it, beat them with milk, chopped the onions and bacon, and tossed them into the mix. The oven said it was done with five beeps. Then the pie crust went in for five minutes, wrapped in foil, while I grated some gruyere and cheddar, tossed in some flour, and whipped it together with the egg mixture. I felt the garage door open as the floor rattled beneath my feet, and moments later, Mike bounded up the stairs, all smiles. Beat together with a hug, several kisses.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go back to work," he called from the bedroom as he changed clothes.

"No problem." I pulled out the pastry crust and removed the foil to brown the crust for another seven minutes in the oven. Walking in, Mike spotted the ingredients and grew visibly excited.

"I wish I could stay."

"Don't worry. I'll be here when you get back."

After he'd left, I poured the mixture into the hot crust and put it back in the oven for 45 minutes, just long enough to set the center. If I've learned anything, it is to enjoy my independence and time alone, but at the same time enjoy the time I spend with loved ones, enjoy the summer, and understand the scales of the world — that disappointment is often a blessing or opportunity or plot twist in disguise, and that food is not simply a requirement for survival but a connection between us all.

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