Work with what you got

My online search began with “recipes without stove or oven.” I self-filtered results that required knives, measuring cups and large amounts of refrigerator space.

For three years, an antiquated microwave and beat-up toaster have comprised my entire kitchen. Oh, and a communal refrigerator.

Living in a sorority house has its setbacks.

Somewhat underwhelmed by my online options, the simplicity of deceptively rich Oreo balls caught my attention. The dish required three ingredients: cream cheese, Oreos and melting chocolate.


Ready to rumble.

Ready to rumble.

1. Finely crush Oreo cookies.

Some might use a food processor to pulse the sandwich cookies into a fine powder. I settled with a Ziploc bag and elbow grease.

Crushing the cookies with my hands served as a wonderful stress reliever but earned glares from the dining room’s other occupants. I retreated to the enclosed kitchen, where I found an abandoned soup can that I transformed into a rolling pin.

Who needs rolling pins?

Who needs rolling pins anyway?

2. Mix cookie crumbs and cream cheese until blended.

Staring at a mess that resembled black, oxygen-rich soil, I knew blending in cream cheese without a spatula might pose a problem.

“Use another Ziploc. It’s so much easier that way,” said a junior who wandered in. “I made Oreo Balls in my dorm all the time freshman year.”

Taking the expert’s advice, I poured the cream cheese and crumbs into a bag and squished and squeezed the ingredients together “until blended.”

3. Shape into 1-inch balls. Freeze for 10 minutes.

I rolled the sticky mixture into lop-sided balls between the palms of my hands, aiming for quantity rather than quality; people would appreciate varying sizes.

Clean hands are a must.

Clean hands are a must.

In lieu of a freezer, I placed the misshapen balls toward the back of the refrigerator and sat vigil for 20 minutes. Field studies reveal hungry sorority women can sniff out chocolate within a mile radius.

4. Dip balls into melted chocolate and place on wax paper.

Finding a glass container large enough to melt my chocolate proved to be less of a challenge than I thought. My sister’s oversized coffee mug fit four squares of white chocolate comfortably, and the handle expedited the dipping process.

Fighting a line of women armed with un-popped popcorn, I nuked the perfectly shaped squares into a gooey liquid and prepared an Oreo ball assembly line.

By the fourth ball, I developed a rhythm: skewer, dip, shake, drop and sprinkle.

Shout out to my sister for lending me her coffee mug.

Shout out to my sister for lending me her coffee mug.

Instead of wax paper, I repurposed the Styrofoam plates our banner chair uses as paint palettes.

5. Refrigerate one hour or until firm.

Ready to finish my dish, I dumped the mostly-firm Oreo balls into a plastic container. Taping a note saying I would murder anyone who ate my creations to the lid, I pushed the container behind a milk jug for good measure.

As I looked at the mess of crumbs, sprinkles and stray white chocolate, I decided that the limitation of a microwave and toaster might be for the best.



The phone trilled, cutting through my fifth episode of “Duck Dynasty” like a screeching fishwife.

On the third ring I grudgingly picked it up.

I mean, it's 2013. Why do we even have this??

I mean, it’s 2013. Why do we even have this??

“Hello? It’s Mrs. Alma. I’ve got some satsumas for y’all. I’m coming over.” Click.

Five minutes later, my petite, sweater-clad neighbor rang the doorbell. She held a hefty Wal-Mart bag of the sweet orange citruses.

“I can’t stay,” she said as she pressed the bag into my hands. “We had so many and I just thought you’d want some.”

With surprising speed, the octogenarian darted back to her home down the cul-de-sac.

The only thing sweeter than these satsumas is Mrs. Alma.

The only thing sweeter than these satsumas is Mrs. Alma.

From the much-anticipated fig preserves Mrs. Debbie provides every summer to the wine and beer that accompany the Fontenot’s Friday evening porch gatherings, food and drink flow freely in my 16-house neighborhood.

Sharing food isn’t out of the ordinary.

When plaque paused Mrs. Helen’s heart, her neighbors quickly picked up the beat. Her home flooded with casseroles and cakes. Her husband didn’t go hungry.

There’s something special about giving food to one another. It ties us together, representing thanks, concern or well wishes. It shows how much we care.

In Louisiana, the kitchen is the heart of life; sharing food is equivalent of sharing love.


Coffee Time

The humid chill seeps through my sweatshirt as my friend mindlessly twirls an empty coffee cup side to side and debates the importance of graduating in four years. She misses the pointed look from a wandering barista. I guess he doesn’t feel our $3.98 pumpkin spice lattes justify a 3-hour campout.

I disagree.

Looking around, I notice the faces haven’t changed from my 11 a.m. arrival. The blonde teenager furrows her brow as she switches from yellow to lime green highlighters. A man in wrinkled plaid and jeans drags on another cigarette, earning a glare from his middle-aged neighbor leafing though the Wall Street Journal.

There’s something about coffeehouses that begs for marathon study sessions or drawn-out reunions. Maybe the fumes keep customers on an Energizer Bunny high, speaking, moving and sipping at heart-palpitation speed. Or it could be the free Wi-Fi.

Fueled by comforting scents of vanilla, hazelnut and mocha, coffee shop conversations dip into uncharted territories. They form the foundation of first dates and mend bridges of lapsed friendships.

Over the whirl of the coffee grinder, my friend feels safe enough to share fears of the future. Between sips, we reminisce about old memories and discuss the six months we have been apart. In the coffee shop, time stops.