'Macdown' practice | Onions are no fun at all

My onion-soiled disaster.

I'm posting this only to prove that I can cook, despite a post in which I questioned my own sanity partially because of what I eat.

Yes, I'm weird. But that doesn't mean I can't use an oven. Crackers are a staple of my diet, but I enjoy other things, too. Like cereal.

A sort of "Macdown" in which co-workers bring in their take on the American favorite, macaroni and cheese, has taken place over the past month at FLORIDA TODAY. All of the dishes were great. And I did take a liking to one in particular, but I can't publicly side with any one co-worker; it would surely add awkwardness to the workplace. Copy desks are awkward by nature, and they don't need mac and cheese to exacerbate the situation. Commas and hyphens do that job well.

My first oven-cooked (and over-cooked) attempt at mac and cheese - not counting those times in a dorm room nuking Easy Mac - followed a recipe by my favorite Food Network personality, Alton Brown. The formula called for a cup of diced onions. And that's where it all went wrong.

Not the preparation of them, that is.

I sliced and diced the onion until I thought I had enough for a half cup. I put the bits into the measuring container, and - BINGO - I nailed it. Exactly a half cup. I can measure!

I could get good at this real-people-food thing, I thought.

I burned the sauce, which I thought would foreshadow my undoing. The paprika-colored milk bubbled over the pot: The lava spewed from the volcano and cooled into a black mess on my stove top. I live in Florida, but my kitchen was Hawaii. The unburned portion seemed edible, though. So I went with it.

And that reminds me: The scum-bottomed pot is still in the sink, uncleaned.

Anyway.

The result was a pile of hot pasta topped with panko bread crumbs and one-quarter of the 12 ounces of cheddar cheese (that's 5 ounces, right?). I sprinkled on some oregano leaves to dress it up for a photo. It was the most beautiful - and only - thing I had ever made.

The taste? A bit off. What was it? The stupid, yellow onions. That perfect measurement was all for nothing. And bad breath.

It wasn't Macdown material.

So, now I seek an onion-less mac and cheese recipe to show my co-workers what's what and who's who. Or at least, to prove that I'm not crazy.

Anyone got a mint? On a cracker?

I just might be crazy

My ceiling fan was an epiphany this morning: I'm messed up.

I wake up and look up. There's a giant five-legged asterisk above me. It's ready to pounce. Bright House Networks' commercials make me fear such things. Beware of the fine print of phone-company advertising, they say. As if my ceiling fan presents a danger.

In low light, I see something coiled on the floor. It's a snake! I like snakes at the zoo. I don't like them on my floor. But it's just my belt.

I think I'm crazy.

I'm obsessed with punctuation. I used to be strict with its use. Comma can't go here, exclamation mark isn't necessary, don't use a question mark with a statement. Now, punctuation is as interpretive as the words it's used with?

Fonts irritate me. I decided not to buy a greeting card because of its font. The inscription was good. But the font hurt my eyes. Too much serif, curve, glitter. I was repulsed.

I eat things other people wouldn't. It's genetics, from Dad. Parmesan cheese goes well with grainy cereals, particularly bran flakes, sometimes with raisins. It's a reliable substitute during a milk shortage. They're both dairy.

Maple syrup and yogurt go with cereal, too. Yogurt's a go-to breakfast food. I scramble eggs with yogurt and sugar, sometimes raisins. Yogurt is good in pancake and French toast batter.

Black tea and hot chocolate is my autumn drink. I mix them.

Sometimes, I drink hot chocolaty tea from a cup but forget to finish off the last few ounces. I never used to do that. My mind is going. Deteriorating. Rotting. Possibly early-stage Alzheimer's.

I microwaved a mug once. I forgot to put water in it.

I bought canned sardines. People with taste buy sardines. They're gross, so only sophisticates consume them, as with caviar, foie gras and Dr. Pepper. I tell myself these things. I think sardines on matzos would be classier than sardines on saltines. Ritz are the middle class. But I've never eaten sardines; they're still in my pantry.

I bought shrimp, pork chops and flour. They're still in my kitchen.

Peanut butter is good. I think my co-workers feel sorry for me when I eat crackers and peanut butter, carrots and peanut butter, apple slices and peanut butter, or just peanut butter. But it's healthier than Reese's peanut butter cups left over from trick-or-treating.

PB&J pancakes are good.

I was addicted to "Guitar Hero" for a week after I bought a used PlayStation 2. I haven't touched it since.

I was addicted to Starbucks for a week. Not the coffee; it's overroasted. I craved hits of the atmosphere: classical music, whirl of the blender, young people like me.

I'm forever addicted to coffee. I go through stages when I pledge caffeine sobriety, and my teeth get whiter. Then I don't sleep one night, and I relapse in the morning. I'm like an alcoholic: once a coffee drinker, always a coffee drinker. Do they have Coffee Anonymous meetings?

My addiction to work won't go away either. But at least I'm not alone. Staff meetings are like group therapy. And doughnut day is medicine day.

I like fine wine. I've developed a collection because I don't have the social life that would justify me opening a bottle. Doing it alone would lead to real alcoholism and real AA meetings.

Sometimes I buy ginger ale and pour it into a glass flute. It looks like real Champagne: a tinge of amber, a squiggly line of bubbles streaming to the surface.

Cranberry ginger ale looks like rose brut.

My neighbor is a sex offender. I haven't slept well since I discovered this, which explains my perpetual coffee drinking. Where's my coupon for Dunkin' Donuts? Where's my handgun? But a Web site says my neighbor likes girls. And that puts me at ease because I'm not a girl.

I write too much, but not frequently enough. So, this felt good. I needed to share. The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.

My latest addiction is reading. Five books - all memoirs - in five days. Six trips to the library. Good thing gas is cheap, $2.17 a gallon. Cheaper than milk. And Parmesan cheese.