Will I ever learn? I knew it was going to be a crash and burn before I even started, but our Colombian exchange student had requested it. For the good-bye potluck, she wanted creamy noodles with chicken. How could I refuse?

Of course, anyone with any sense would have boiled some noodles, slathered them with a jar of alfredo sauce and called it done. Not me. Oh no. I saute some chicken, then add a little black forest ham to the pan for extra flavor. I mince an onion to create a flavor base for my cream sauce, then add garlic for a bit of kick. I make a roux, then stir in freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano until the flavor of the sauce is nearly perfect. I dust the sauce with white pepper and declare it perfect.

Just before time to leave, I cook up the noodles and top them with the (now too thick) sauce. Result: A gloppy mass of inedibility; a dish so unappealing that I nearly laugh out loud. Desperate to un-glop the noodles, I chop up the noodles. It’s hopeless. It still resembles a mountain of silicone. I pour milk into the noodles and frantically stir. The cheese is too cold. I try stuffing the dish in the microwave. It doesn’t fit.

I throw my hands up in the air, cover it and pretend it’s food. I sneak it into the buffet, making sure no one sees the dish in question. As I eat and share conversation with a lovely woman, I can’t help but notice that she’s eaten every other bite of food on her plate — except my silicone noodles. I offer to take her plate to the trash, and make a note: Creamy noodles don’t keep and they don’t travel. They are not, repeat NOT, potluck food.