I entered college as an art major in the fall of 1975. Our entire dorm building was made up of either art or music majors. We were a motley crew, with the musicians being slightly more serious and devoted to their futures, while the art majors had a more lackadaisical attitude. Our dorm was known as “The Zoo.”

What a schedule I worked out for myself! In two days, I covered my required art classes, a couple of English credits and a philosophy course. The rest of the week, I was free to enjoy being an 18-year-old who was bent on writing profoundly depressing poetry; I was listening to the songwriters of the day, who all seemed to be writing for me alone as though they knew me and what I was up to. I was also learning the ins and outs of drinking in a college town with dozens of bars—and cooking for my dormmates.

This last endeavor was a big no-no. We were forbidden to have any cooking implements in our dorm rooms, though we were allowed a small refrigerator. Between us, my roommate, Lynnann and I had two double-burner hot plates, a large and a small toaster oven, and a variety of pots and pans. Dipping into the allowance my parents sent for books and art supplies, I didn’t stint on ingredients and could, on any given night, be found cooking dishes like broiled shrimp, baked chicken or one of my specialties, salmon croquettes scented with lemon zest.

On the occasions when we heard that an inspection was about to take place, we went about lugging all of our cooking paraphernalia to a friend’s room that had already gone through inspection, or we would cover the contraband with a batiked Indian bedspread and shove it on the floor of one of our closets.

When the coast was clear, Lynnann invariably begged me to prepare her favorite snack, toasted whole wheat bread topped with chunky peanut butter, bananas and a drizzle of honey. I’d whip that up for her and then set about some real cooking.

Once I decided to make my own potato chips. I flavored them with Indian spices like curry powder, garam masala, cumin and turmeric. It took me hours to painstakingly cut each potato into the thinnest possible rounds and then coat each one with the spice mixture. As I set about deep frying them, the scent of curry brought eager faces to our door. My friends kept grabbing fistfuls from the paper toweled-lined bowl in which I was dumping them. When I had finished this lengthy production, there were about six potato chips left for my own consumption. Not a great reward after two and a half hours of work, but I really didn’t mind. The truth was that I loved cooking for friends.

One evening a week we all gathered in the communal television room on our floor to watch a “Twilight Zone” marathon. Most people arrived in their pajamas or bathrobes, as we were an informal group, to say the least. I was often called upon to bake cookies or some other treat for the event. Our huge toaster oven came in handy at these times. One night, my friend Rich presented me with a somewhat unorthodox filling for brownies. “Skip the nuts,” he counseled. An hour later, I entered the TV room with a platter of pungent-smelling brownies. To my memory, every episode of “Twilight Zone” was hysterically funny that night.

I sometimes miss the crazy days of my youth. Once in a while, I open up a can of salmon and purchase a package of smoked salmon and recreate, with more sophistication, the memory of one of the greatest times in my life. These really don’t need anything more than an accompaniment of crisp coleslaw or a plate of sliced, ripe tomatoes drizzled with good extra-virgin olive oil, sea salt and a splash of aged balsamic vinegar. Those, truly, were the days!