IN WORDS

I was in my early twenties, living in a little apartment two miles from my college campus in Colorado. It was a typical Wednesday night of studies, music and gossip, and it was my turn to be the chef for my roommates. I was making macaroni and cheese.

Amid a rowdy discussion of whether my roommate truly appreciated her art appreciation class in the same way I did, I looked down at my lap. I was ferociously stirring the unyielding cheese-like powder into the bay of milk and butter when I gasped. The hot pot was sitting on my lap.