The scene: Chicago, 1997, my friend's apartment

The reason I was baking: I'm not positive, but I think I offered to bring dessert to a dinner party.

Unfortunate baking selection: Baked Alaska

I have a tendency to want to make something unusual if I'm going to actually bake. Something eye-catching. Something risky. I have a fantasy that people will say, "My goodness! That Rita, she has an angel's touch in the kitchen!" And I like food with unusual names.

I'd never made meringue before. I called my aunt back home to ask her how to properly whip the eggs, as I assumed she would know. I balanced the phone against my shoulder as I held the hand mixer, attempting to bring it way up and down the way I'd seen on TV.

I may have splattered a bit of egg around my friend's rather pristine kitchen.

Now, I believe you're supposed to bake the white cake, then put the ice cream on TOP of the white cake, put the merengue on top of all that, freeze the whole thing for like two hours, then bake it for ten minutes.

I envisioned the ice cream INSIDE the cake. In a sweet, little bed, all protected from that nasty oven. So I cut the cake apart and tried to put the ice cream inside.

Then I forgot to freeze it again.

I put this whole concoction in the oven, waiting for my perfect meringue to brown. The entire thing collapsed in. I put it in the freezer anyway.

I believe in the end it was referred to as "Baked Connecticut," because it was a million miles away from Baked Alaska.