I ate Jell-O, of course — it was the first thing I learned to “cook,” in a dedicated set of Tupperware bowls. Its bright primary colors sparkled in glass coupes at every coffee shop in the city, and it had a taste of forbidden fruit, like melted hard candies. With a crown of equally forbidden whipped topping, it was considered a luxurious dessert.
But in my 14th year, the Jell-O paradigm shifted. My pack of friends was invited to dinner at the home of another friend; her mother, a transplanted Southerner, had already set the table with the first course.