Some of you have noted the title of my column and its cooking inference and surmised I might be a gourmet chef, or at least have a fair degree of competence in the culinary arts. Alas, that is far from reality.

In the past, I have attempted to join the ranks of the culinary elite but due to past failures, the Surgeon General has requested my kitchen display a sign usually intended for most heavy-industrial zones: a flip board with changeable numbers indicating the days elapsed since the last on-the-job accident. I have even viewed the effervescent chefs on the Food Network in an attempt to absorb a few rudimentary tips, but all in vain. It has been the equivalent of slowing down to see a gory auto accident on the Garden State Parkway: I know it is bad for me, I won’t learn anything and I can’t take steps to ease the carnage. Thus, my George Foreman grill and microwave have been the only reluctant companions on my journey towards nutrition.

One recent Wednesday at a Macy’s One-Day Sale, I naively believed I might turn the tide of food preparation ineptitude. I strode confidently into the housewares department and decided to purchase a wok: shiny, Teflon-coated like many of our recent politicians, and smartly accented with big wooden handles and metal domed lid.

“Hmm, why not invite my mother over for a home-cooked meal this evening?” I thought. “How difficult could it be to prepare stir-fry vegetables and rice?”

As the hour of reckoning neared, I came to my senses and realized that I shouldn’t attempt this escapade alone. I decided to invoke a little help from above by praying to the patron saint of cooking.

Now before I go any further, let me share with you my philosophy on patron saints. In my conversations with friends, I have come to realize that everyone approaches the well-known, popular saints for help. Worried about a hopeless situation? Pray to St. Jude. Lose something? St. Anthony is your man. Problem with a pet or wildlife and who you gonna call?  St. Francis of Assisi to the rescue.

I imagine these busy, oft-beseeched saints in heaven, scurrying around like delicatessen counter workers on a Saturday morning, frantically calling out numbers and slapping prayer orders onto wax paper while their customers impatiently mill about. Personally, for help with my own struggles I’d rather look to the lesser-known men and women of God, the ones perhaps with a little more time on their hands.

Imagine them up in heaven, singing God’s praises during choir practice, and being constantly interrupted by the incessant “When the Saints Go Marching In” ringtone trumpeting from their more popular compatriots’ cell phones. The “A-list” saints roll their eyes, pat the hidden pockets of their robes, then wearily apologize. “Sorry, I have to take this call.”

Their less popular brethren, though having attained everlasting life and adulation, feel neglected and surreptitiously check their own celestial Blackberries for messages to no avail, muttering, “Is this thing even on?”

So, in order that my prayer request not reach an overwrought heaven-dweller but instead jump to the head of the line, I tried a modern-day solution: surfing the Internet. The Catholic.org website’s “Saints and Angels” section lists hundreds of saints and blessed beings’ specialties, so I thought this would be the perfect place to find a lesser known yet still effective celestial assistant in the kitchen.

So who’s the patron saint of cooking? Okay, click on the C’s and scroll down… cab drivers, candle makers, cloth workers, ooh, comedians! (note to self: invoke St. Vitus next time I have no ideas for a column topic). Aha, here it is - the patron saint of cooking is St. Martha!

I should have known. It is the poor woman who bustled about preparing a meal for Jesus while her sister Mary lolled at his feet and half-heartedly offered to phone for take-out food. Okay, St. Martha will be tonight’s new sous-chef. I said a quick prayer to the hard-working Woman of God, invoking her help with the meal, then set out to make dinner for myself and my mom.

My friend Carina had once advised I use a high flame to properly sauté vegetables, so I poured about two tablespoons of oil in the wok, covered it, then confidently turned the knob on the stovetop all the way up. I then took the bag of stir-fry vegetables from the freezer, set it to defrost in the microwave, and chopped some red peppers and snow peas for extra crunch.

Admiring my handiwork, I internally bragged, “Wow, what a marvelous spectrum: green broccoli and snow peas, white water chestnuts and rice, red peppers. A United Nations display of colors in one meal.” All I needed was something orange to complete the little rainbow tableau of flavors.

I set the rice to cook, emptied the dishwasher, set the table, and sat down to have a chat with my mother. Finally remembering the wok, WHICH HAD BEEN COOKING ON HIGH THIS WHOLE TIME, I turned around… and heard the smoke alarm in the hall go off.

This happens so often that I think of it as dinner music, so I was not yet worried. I clicked on the kitchen overhead fan and shooed Mom into the hall with a dishtowel to wave over the beeping unit to silence it. Okay, let me just lift the lid and toss in a little semi-defrosted water chestnut to see if the oil is ready…

WHOOSH!

Giant orange flames leapt from the wok, thus indicating that prolonged multi-tasking is not the wisest thing to do while cooking. I screamed and slammed the lid onto the wok, hoping to quell the fire. An orange glow emanated from under the lid, one much like the ancients probably saw while fleeing the volcanic eruptions of Mounts Vesuvius or Krakatoa. Meanwhile, the kitchen filled with billowing grey smoke and the upstairs smoke alarm joined its downstairs cousin in shrilly chanting, “Chris is cooking again! Chris is cooking again!”

I clicked off the burner, turned the exhaust fan on high, and ran out the back door to stand and wonder how I managed to graduate both high school and college without grasping the simple scientific notion of heat + oil = conflagration. At this point, I am sure St. Martha was overwhelmed and furiously speed-dialing St. Florian, the Patron Saint of Firefighters, for his assistance.

Meanwhile, my poor mother was huddled in the hall, gasping for air while speed-dialing her lawyer to revise her will and make my brother her medical power of attorney in case dinner preparations continued to go downhill.

When the flames had quieted and the smoke dissipated, I looked at my scorched wok.  Now, a saner, less stubborn woman would have surrendered at this point, but the partially defrosted vegetables still silently reproached me from the counter. I dissuaded my famished and skeptical mother from her attempts to call the local pizzeria, arguing the food was still unscathed.

“Woks are made of metal,” I reasoned, “so why can’t I just remove the burnt oil and start again?” 

Now that I definitely had St. Martha’s attention, she would most likely redouble her efforts to help me achieve a delightful culinary experience. I grabbed a sheet of paper towel, intending to wipe out the remains of the burnt oil, and noticed that it became quite tarry and thick with black goo.  Hmm, and why is the bottom of the wok suddenly shiny?  Looks like the Teflon had burned right off!

Not a problem, I reasoned. Teflon is probably carcinogenic anyway and I can try cooking on the bare metal. I conveniently neglected to share this bit of information, however, with my intended victim, um, I mean fellow diner. I blithely proceeded to pour oil into the wok, carefully turned the stove burner to a lower setting than before, and cooked the vegetables uneventfully. Mom did remark about the “interesting black flecks” in the meal, but I assured her they were just spices I had added when she hadn’t noticed.

A few hours later, while tossing and turning in bed, I dreamed that St. Martha had called her wireless provider to install call blocking against my number. Arising after a fitful night’s sleep, I had reason to surf the web once again and check the trusty “Saints and Angels” section, this time for the patron saint of abdominal pains. God must really have a sense of humor, because this malady’s saint is St. Erasmus, also known as St. Elmo (of St. Elmo’s Fire fame).

Well, he’s probably not too busy. Except on Thanksgiving.