Be my Valentine? Here’s a good recipe for you—but first its story. Both are close to my heart.

It was 1967, first semester of my senior year at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston; in the spring I would give my senior recital, the culmination of four years’ work as a major in Applied Flute.

That fall, after three years of dorm living, I’d also somewhat inadvertently enrolled in Real Life 101, in the form of a student apartment which I shared with two other flutists and a French horn player. Each of us kicked in five dollars a week for food and took turns cooking and housekeeping. None of us ever asked whether the others could cook, we just plunged in; for me, however, it was the first time I’d ever done much in the kitchen beside cutting up carrots and helping my mother make the occasional batch of cookies.

Late one afternoon that fall, after a terrible performance at my private flute lesson, I started trudging the few blocks back to the apartment. Tired and disgusted, I was berating myself anew with every step. Mr. Pappoutsakis, my great Boston Symphony teacher, had found nothing but problems with my playing that day. He was right, too—I’d been socializing too much lately and it showed. A lot. Now my mind was blazing. How could I be so stupid? You should be ashamed of yourself, Sally … and variation after variation on these thoughts.

When I reached Apartment 2B and unlocked the door, a further realization hit: Oh, NO. It’s my night to cook dinner. Oh, damn.

So I assessed the contents of the fridge. Hamburger…. O.K. Well, I suppose I can slap together a meatloaf. Next, still muttering and grumping, I scrubbed potatoes to bake alongside. Practically took the skins off, I got so aggressive with them. Now what on earth can I come up with for dessert?… I guess I could make brownies, Mommy said the recipe’s on the box of Baker’s chocolate.

I lit the oven, then put bitter chocolate with margarine in the double boiler. While those things melted together, I measured flour, salt, and baking powder, and greased the pan, ramming butter hard into the corners. Next, I stabbed, then stirred the eggs, added vanilla, and beat in sugar. By now, the dark warm goo in the pan smelled coffee-good and I stirred it into the gluey egg-sugar mix. Flour puffed into the air as I dumped in the dry ingredients and stirred vigorously. Finally, I spatula-ed the shiny thick smoothness into the pan and shoved it in the oven.

About twenty minutes later, I heard a key twist in the lock. As soon as the door opened, my roommate, Ann, called out. “Oh, what are you making that smells so good?”

“Brownies!”

Brinnnnng! The timer. Holding the pan in a pot-holdered hand, I tested. Done!

Just then, Carol arrived. “Can I have one?”

“No, it’s too soon to cut them, they’ll just fall apart. But you’ll get some later, they’re for dessert tonight!”

For a moment, I stood there and looked at those brownies: unglamorous and brown, in an even browner old pan. I took a deep sniff.

Wow, they do smell wonderful!  … I feel better now … a lot better, in fact…. Maybe I can pick myself back up. I’ll get to work practicing, and I’ll play so much better next week, I’ll surprise Mr. Pappoutsakis…. Right now, though, I’ve created something …. Something good.

Cooking had done it. Though I didn’t analyze it, I’d put all those disparate ingredients together. And by getting hands-on involved in the stages of cooking and what I’d made, I’d been rewarded—after all, I loved chocolate, too! Later I had the fun of watching my friends wolf down the entire batch of brownies in about ten minutes flat. That gloomy little student apartment kitchen (it was a rather greasy green) had acted as a magic chamber: I went in, worked, and came out refreshed.

Since that day, the power and joy of cooking has never left me. I don’t always do it to chase the blues, although putting together a meal or improvising a recipe has often done just that. It’s no coincidence that my favorite basic cookbook is The Joy of Cooking; I own four editions now, including a very banged-up copy of the 1963 edition given me by my future mother-in-law. I find joy in cutting things up, in handling food, especially after I’ve been at the computer for a long time, a sense of “back to reality.” I’ve also experienced that same pleasure I did in the apartment of making something people like, even if the fruits of my labor disappear before they’ve had much time to exist. I love to improvise, to make soup or a zappy sauce for pasta. And then there’s composing menus! I still love meatloaf and baked potatoes—the ultimate comfort food menu, especially when you know you have it ready to shove in the oven—but I also love to design a beautiful dinner for friends, along with setting an appropriate table.

Even though I do have “off” nights, cooking is a joy I had never foreseen, a life tool that has served me over and over, and a key part of my creative self.

And here’s the recipe for the brownies. I still make it, and it works.

The Brownies!

Oven 350 degrees

• 1 1/3 C. flour
• 2 t. baking powder
• shake of salt
• 1 1/3 cup butter (1 and 1/3 sticks)
• 4 oz. unsweetened baking chocolate
• 4 eggs
• 2 C. sugar
• 2 t. vanilla
• 6 oz. chocolate chips

Mix flour with baking powder and salt in large measuring cup. Melt chocolate and butter in double boiler. Beat eggs well in large mixing bowl; add vanilla, then the melted chocolate and butter. Stir dry ingredients (flour, baking powder, and salt) into chocolate mixture, then stir in chips. Make sure there are no traces of white – mix thoroughly. Spread batter in greased pan (9” x 13”) or 2 8” square pans.

Bake for 20-25 minutes, depending on your oven. Cool at least an hour before cutting with sharp knife, slide out with spatula.

Makes 32 brownies.