Avery stood at the head of the aisle in the front of the grocery store, staring at the shelves lined with a hundred kinds of pasta, and his palms, shoved into his pockets, started to sweat. Taking a deep breath he started down the tile-lined aisle, his eyes sweeping like searchlights the endless stretch of carbohydrate-filled cardboard. No nincompoop, Avery wasn’t about to let something as trivial as a box of rotini stand in the way of his quest to Master the Art of Home Cooking. No idiot, sure, but even Avery had to admit that the idea of making red sauce from scratch (tomatoes? what else? he thought) clouded his otherwise reasonably intelligent mind. When you come to realize that you don’t have the foggiest idea of when pasta is cooked through, you start to question your ability to handle more complicated scenarios, like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.