The title of this entry reflects the logic behind my New Year's resolution: learn how to cook. At some point in my life I would like to get married and I have decided that no man would put up with a woman unless she knows how to prepare a decent meal. I know this is a grossly general statement and that there are plenty of happy marriages in which this is not the standard, but I am Italian and Italian women always cook dinner for their husbands, no questions asked. It's about time I gravitate towards total self reliance, and that means being able to cook something beyond the power a microwave has to offer. Eager to begin my quest towards culinary prowess, I bought some frozen chicken and let it defrost overnight. All during my classes I imagined how delicious my breaded chicken would taste, especially after knowing I had made it. Finally the time came to prepare the meat. I coated the cutlet in egg and rolled it around in bread crumbs, then placed it in the frying pan, in the canola oil I had been letting simmer. It smelled great for about three minutes, and then the poultry gods had their way with me. The oil began to hiss and spit uncontrollably. The breading was beginning to burn but the chicken was still raw. Time was of the essence. I couldn't let the meat cook anymore because the breading would be reduced to a black crust and my roommates would be rather unhappy regarding the incriminating smell, but I couldn't eat the chicken as it was. Do I microwave it? Will it explode? If I bake it, will the breading continue to burn? I had no idea. Accepting my defeat, I scraped the not-quite-dinner into the garbage and threw something into the microwave. I was unnecessarily angry over this setback. There it was, the foul and burnt-smelling truth--I'd never learn how to cook and therefore never attract a man. I'd be reduced to a crazy spinster with seven cats, and hell, I'd probably cut myself on the cans of food I'd have to open for them. The injustice of it all. I called my mother and did my share of bitching. She told me the right way to make breaded cutlets, and, relishing in a burst of confidence, I took out another piece of chicken to thaw so that I can try again tomorrow. I don't care if it takes me a month, I am going to learn how to cook chicken.