My freshman year of college I lived in the Foreign Language Housing. I shared an apartment with four other girls who were learning Spanish and one native speaker. To live in the housing we signed a contract promising to only speak Spanish in our apartment. Our rent also included dinner Sunday-Thursday, which was made, and shared, by the residents of our “house” (the Spanish house for me).
Our “house” was made up of five apartments, so there were thirty of us. We created cooking groups, based on our schedules and had the responsibility to cook twice a month. My group was made up two boys and me. They were nice kids, but I was definitely the cook in the bunch, which meant that the planning fell on me.
One week I had to stay on campus late for an exam, so I asked the boys to start without me. We were making grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. I asked them to have the soup on the stove, the cheese sliced, and the bread buttered so that when I got there we could start cooking sandwiches.
When I arrived they apologized for being behind the schedule. The buttering of the bread, they explained, was taking longer than expected. As I peeked over their shoulders I discovered the problem. They had melted the butter and were drizzling it on pieces of bread with a spoon, trying to provide full bread coverage. They didn’t know that for grilled cheese you just have to butter bread, not melt it before applying to the bread. College boys.