"So that's a scallion" and other shocking food-related admissions

Scallions and green onions are the same thing.

You probably already knew that, and that knowledge is what separates us.

Two weeks ago I wasn't aware that an onion by any other name could be as slender and green. Hence why I stood flustered and confused in the produce section of my friendly neighborhood grocery store. My recipe said "green onions." There were no onions of green hue in the onion bins. So I did what any perplexed shopper would do: I avoided assistance from the grocery store employee, who was clearly busy arranging tomatoes, and the other shoppers, who would certainly point and laugh at me. Instead I wiped my expression free of its bewilderment, took on the casual, vegetable-friendly demeanor of someone who feels comfortable in a produce department, pulled out my iPhone and Googled it.

Green onions, it turns out, sure look a good deal like scallions. They're twins, really. They could meet at camp, switch places and hatch a plot to reunite their estranged parents.

So now I know. But there's plenty I still don't.

I grew up eating frozen waffles, Pizza Rolls and spaghetti. I took a home economics class in junior high where I learned to hem a pair of gym shorts and microwave a hot dog (wrapping it in a paper towel apparently makes all the difference).

In college I became a master of fried bologna. A sage of buttered rice. A lord of frozen peas, grilled cheese and PB&J. And then I moved to Portland.

It's a foodie world out there, which is great for, you know, foodies. But I see words like bresaola and carpaccio and I want to run for the hills with a tub of peanut butter, because I know what peanut butter is. At least, I know what the jar looks like.

Truth is, I still don't know how to cook much of anything. I've long joked that my cheap coffee maker is the only kitchen appliance that I use with any regularity. But I'm not joking. The oven gets little love from me. Until a week ago I didn't even own an oven mitt - a dish rag worked just fine to pull out a hot baking tray on the rare occasion one found its way in there.

The good news is, my affliction is curable. But I'll have to do an awful lot of eating. Woe is me.