Man, I love pasta. Well that’s an understatement. Like I really love pasta. I would do anything for it, maybe even almost burn my entire apartment building down for it. 

Ok hold on I’m getting ahead of myself. First things first, pasta is one of my favorite foods. From the pastina with butter and parmesan my grandma would make me as a little kid, to the lemon ricotta raviolis I learned how to make in Florence and make whenever I wanna impress someone, to the homemade spaghetti I beg my parents for at least once, ok sometimes more than once, every single time I visit home—let’s just say pasta is a big part of my life. 

Wow I’m dramatic. Point is—you get the point. 

But I’m not sure you fully believe me. What lengths would I go to for pasta? Let’s find out.

So about a month ago I was getting ready for my last night out at the frats before leaving college forever and ever. It had been quite some time since I’d made an appearance on frat row and this night might’ve been a sign that that was for good reason. 

I was hanging out with some friends from Baked, the cooking magazine I lead. We got together for a few drinks before heading off to the dirty basements. We danced and sang, and drank lots and lots of jungle juice. A great college night. Or so I thought. 

Well I guess you should know that I had just recently broken things off with my boyfriend of nearly four years. And as I’m sure some of you are all well too familiar with, heartbreak and alcohol do not mix. 

A little in my feels, I ditched my friends and the dirty basement, ran to the streets, and called my best friend. I wanted out of the frats and into my best friend’s apartment with the cozy couch and endless selection of snacks.

Unfortunately for me, she was already tied up looking after some other emotional drunks. So it was into the uber and back to my house. 

All I wanted was a little comfort food and my bed. So I got out the pot, filled it with water, and turned the stove to high. 

Now I’ve made pasta hundreds of times while tipsy—for myself, for friends. Trust me, I am a responsible chef. 

But my bed just looked a little too cozy and my eyelids were just a little too heavy that night. The next thing I know I’m waking half in and out of sleep to what sounds like my alarm clock that just won’t fucking snooze. 

In a wave of confusion I do the one thing that just makes sense. I call up my best friend.

She’s yelling at me, “Maggie, your fire alarm is blaring, go outside!” 

“No, someone needs to turn that shit off!” I’m in denial as I fight the urge to turn back to sleep. 

Suddenly, reality starts to kick in and I remember my midnight snack. My nose is cringing at the nasty burning smell filling my entire apartment. I jump out of bed, run to the stove, and turn the burner off. I’m running around my apartment frantically when I hear *bang bang bang* on the front door. 

With nothing but fear and dread I rush to the front door. And what meets my eyes is a sight I will never forget. 

Four, big men decked out in full firefighter attire, who looked about ready to bust down my door. I’m panicking. “I don’t think it’s me,” I try to convince myself. “Yeah it’s definitely you” says the four firefighters as they enter the war zone. 

I’m freaking out — like what the hell am I supposed to do. And as I’m running around my apartment with the firefighters, opening every window to air out the smoke filling my lungs, what is my best friend doing? Snapping pictures.