I moved into my first Manhattan apartment last month and the kitchen is the size of my work cubicle. I have non-existent counter space, temperamental burners that don’t reach full heating potential if more than one is on, and an oven that hasn’t been properly cleaned since 1933. As you can see at left, the kitchen is approximately three feet wide, with every inch used for an appliance. And I share it with a roommate.

However, I made the vow to cook, so cook I did. I decided on gingerbread cookies, because we were in baking season. (Full disclosure: I used a boxed mix, but only to acclimate myself to cooking in close quarters.)

A half a stick of margarine (for you calorie counters, this may not have been the healthiest recipe), an egg and a tablespoon of water turned the dry mix into fragrant dough. After taking the time to round each cookie, I sprinkled the tops with sugar granules, a practice I learned from my Aunt Susie.

I preheated the oven to 375 degrees, as directed, but was suspicious when I opened the door and furnace-hot air blasted out. The first batch was burned, but not inedible. I noted this and adjusted the time for the second round.

Unfortunately, the second batch was even less of a success. I don’t believe the bottoms of cookies should be black. In fact, they resemble gingerbread charcoal, don’t you think?

Since I doubt I am the only person in America with a temperamental oven, I decided we need a more scientific measurement of the heat level. Next week I’m experimenting again, but I’m adding an oven thermometer into the mix. I’ll let you know whether it was worth the cost—and whether it results in better gingerbread cookies!

I am no domestic goddess. I am a doodler in an Italian family where cooking is an art. My family finds this hysterical, and conversations at holiday meals inevitably end with coffee, dessert, and tales of my culinary catastrophes. Here’s a taste from last year’s festivities.

“Remember the time Mara put baking soda instead of baking powder in the peach cobbler?” my dad asks the table. “It tasted like peach toothpaste.” Laughter erupts.

“Or when the entire basketball team got a stomachache from her burned cookies?” my younger sister Logan chuckles. I turn the color of the garnet bow on the centerpiece and force a smile.

Nonna, my father’s mother, performs magic in the kitchen. As a child, I’d watch her fingers perform the recipes by heart—a pinch of salt, a dash of sugar, a splash of milk. An hour later—presto!—she would pull her homemade lasagna out of the oven, steaming hot and smelling fantastic.

Aunt Susie has followed in her footsteps. She bakes dessert for every holiday meal. Not the Betty Crocker boxed baked goods I’ve long relied on, but raspberry tortes, chocolate Yule logs, and crème de menthe brownies.

I tried to follow in their footsteps, but after a half-dozen recipe misfires, I stopped cooking and busied myself with sports, the student newspaper, 180 unruly sorority girls and anything that didn’t involve an apron or a saucepan.

Now that I’ve moved a thousand miles away from home and my family, I’ve decided it is time to try cooking again. Culinary prowess runs in my blood somewhere, and I’m determined to tap that vein.

I’ll be tuning in to the Food Network, surfing the Web, and soliciting recipes from my family members, all to prove that I, too, can cook a dish worthy of praise. But really, I’m just hoping to avoid a visit from the fire department.

My weapons? A George Foreman grill, an Everedge knife, and a “Kiss the Cook” apron. My war? Winning the skeptics over at the next family gathering with a side dish that tastes and looks as it should and that won’t wreak havoc on our waistlines. My motto? Take no prisoners (including tricky food gizmos).

Let the games begin.