I thought this could be fun–write a story, it can be anything from what you had for lunch or some epic event that has happened, or can be completely fictional, but the catch is to set the tone by writing the ending first. I’m sure most of my readers have seen a Quentin Taratino film, right? He  likes to start with the last scene and then start from the beginning to finish the rest of the story. So here is my example that I took from my own personal experience, but with a fictitious ending :

All that remained of my kitchen was a charred measuring cup and a dancing aroma of burnt asparagus…

Last year, I went on this crazy rampage of learning how to cook. You may question my use of the word “rampage” but many can attest to the destruction and agony that occurred in my kitchen last spring. I have watched my mother slave over holiday meals for the previous 20 years of my life. Needless to say, she made Julia Childs look exactly that, like a child. My mother to this date has been the only woman to successfully get me to ask for second helpings of meat (long story short, I don’t eat it regularly for a variety of reasons). She was my inspiration. So from her recommendation, I started out with the basics–pasta, frozen vegetables, smoothies and many microwaveable “meals.” Yes, based on my level of culinary expertise, pasta and microwaveable dinners counted as cooking. Once I mastered those basics, I thought it was only appropriate for me to start tackling protein. My eggs were divine, the chicken was fair, the steak was edible. I cannot recall the holiday to which I decided to attempt the “Full Monty” of my culinary life, but all I can remember is that I thought it would be brilliant to make roasted asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, fabulous cheese and herb stuffed steaks and my mothers infamous potatoes au gratin (to die for).  This marathon of a dinner was my own personal test–if succeeded, this cooking binge would develop into something more than a hobby, if I had failed, easy mac would resume its rightful place as my dinner. I started the potatoes first because they take the longest to prepare and cooked. I had already prepared the asparagus and steaks prior to the potatoes–all they required was some time in the oven. An hour into cooking the potatoes (and basting with heavy cream every 20 minutes) I needed to stick the asparagus in the oven as well. As any chef would know, asparagus draped in olive oil should be placed inside a cookie sheet or pan with sides. Not only did my pan not have sides, it was a “flat” cookie sheet with a warped surface that couldn’t lay flat even with a brick on top. I stuck the asparagus into the oven feeling a sense of relief, I can see the finish line in the distance. I sat down briefly to enjoy a sip of wine. I was overjoyed by the smells that were caressing my nose. Garlic from the potatoes, salty parmesan cheese atop the tender asparagus. It was heaven in my nose, and damnit, I was proud. Too proud. The cheesy smell turned into one that was all too familiar–burnt failure served with a side order of self pity. I trotted to the kitchen ready to wallow in my disaster of a dinner,but boy did I not have time for that. Fire. I wasn’t trained for this! My mind began to race. The fire in the oven had caught. It appeared the olive oil was dripped from my cooking sheet into the depths of hell. Grease fire, do I use water? Or is that the big no-no that I’m supposed to remember? Crap. Note to self: water is not the answer.

After my kitchen was doused and the fire was out, I decided on a safer, less expensive hobby. All that was left of my kitchen was a charred measuring cup and a dancing aroma of burnt asparagus.