Toni, I finished your story with a certain smugness that guys from my era were much better equipped to deal with life at a young age. But then I remembered a classmate, whom I shall refer to as Mark (that being his name, but it was over 40 years ago so what are the odds he'll read this?).

Mark had his mommy take care of him until he went to the Naval Academy, at which point the naval establishment handled his housing, food, and clothing needs. He married right after graduation, so his wife slid into the roles that his mommy and the Naval Academy had previously filled. Which worked great for Mark. Until his wife had to be with her parents for a family emergency, leaving Mark alone (no kids at that point, thank heaven).

First dinner alone, Mark called Joyce, the wife of a classmate. [The spouses — all wives at this point, it was 1981 — had their own network. Mark's wife had told him to call Joyce if he had any problems.] Mark has zero clues how to make dinner. He was panicked.

JOYCE: Mark! Relax, it's fine. Walk over to the fridge and tell me what's in there... uh huh, uh huh, wait! Hot dogs, you can do hot dogs, Mark. Find a pot, fill it with water, bring it to a boil, put the hot dogs in for five minutes, you'll be fine.

There followed additional instructions about difficult tasks such as "how to boil water on the stove." When they hung up, Joyce was fairly confident that Mark had matters in hand.

Or not. Mark called back shortly afterward in a higher level of panic. The pot had exploded, or something.

JOYCE: Omigod, Mark, are you okay? Is everything alright?

MARK: I think so, but there are hot dog pieces and hot water all over the kitchen. And the plastic from the hot dog package got on the burner and caught fire, but I put it out.

Silence.

JOYCE: Mark, did you take the hot dogs OUT of the package?

MARK: You never mentioned that part. I would have remembered.

I should mention that Mark went on to be a qualified US Navy nuclear submarine officer.

No idea if he ever learned to cook.