As a full-time college student, I rarely had the time to devote a whole day to a meal. When I successfully defended my thesis a month before graduation, I decided that it was time to make dinner.

Throughout my four years at a small liberal arts school in Florida, I tried not to let the restrictions of dorm life hinder my ability to cook well. When I was getting ready to start school, I called the residence life office to see if my dorm would have any cooking facilities. They told me that the rooms had no facilities, but that there were communal kitchens in each of the dorm complexes. Whomever I spoke with assured me that I would be put in a room near one of these kitchens. Not totally satisfied with the prospect of leaving my room to make a grilled cheese sandwich, I e-mailed residence life and asked what their policy was on students using cooking equipment-hot plates, toasters, microwaves-in their rooms. The reply told me that microwaves were just fine, but that other electric cooking equipment, such as toaster ovens, fell under the category of "Oh, god no!"

[Photo: Nick Vagnoni]For my first few months at school, I schlepped my groceries and a meager set of pots and pans from my room-which was in the only dorm complex without cooking facilities-to one of the filthy communal kitchens.

The residence life staff at my school was, shall I say, pleasantly non-invasive. As such, it occurred to me that I could probably sneak an electric buffet range into my room without anyone noticing, or even caring. For a few dollars, I found a two-burner electric range that fit perfectly on top of my mini-fridge. With this, my microwave and my cheap pots and pans, I now had a pretty wide range of cooking options. In my very own room, I could make scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast or soups and pasta sauces for lunch and dinner. My desk doubled as a kitchen counter and the bookshelf that I shared with my roommate became our cupboard. Despite having to do dishes in my bathroom sink, I was overjoyed to be able to cook 'at home.' My makeshift dorm kitchen came together nicely, especially with the toaster-oven I won in game of spades (I had wagered a new bottle of laundry detergent). The room was no doubt a fire hazard. A Bob Marley tapestry flapped above the buffet range, which was balanced on top of my mini-fridge. The toaster sat atop the microwave, which sat atop my dresser. I was pleased.

The following year, not having nearly enough seniority to get into one of the dorms with real kitchens, I found myself in a slightly nicer version of my old room. I bought a card table and some wire shelves, and with that I consolidated all my kitchen equipment into one little station. For Christmas, my parents sent me a small convection oven to replace my ill-gotten toaster. I could now roast meats and vegetables and even do a little baking. I was limited only by what I could fit in the oven. To the joy of my roommate and everyone else in the dorm, I began roasting whole chickens dressed with fresh rosemary grown on my small balcony.

At the end of the year, my current roommate and I organized with two other students to draw for an apartment-style dorm. Aside from my own bedroom, I would now have a full-sized refrigerator, a sink other than the one in which I shaved and brushed my teeth and-gasp-a dishwasher. I probably could have done without the latter, especially when I realized that the kitchens in these dorms had dishwashers instead of ovens. The electric range, while still only having two burners, was an improvement over my smaller model-it got much hotter and was surrounded by ample counter space. I still had to walk to a lounge if I wanted to bake something big, but I didn't really care. At that point I was excited simply by the prospects of having a room with something that could be called a kitchen. The day for room draw came and my friends and I secured one of the apartments.

My convection oven continued to serve me well, and, with a length of chain and some s-hooks, I outfitted my new kitchen with a fine pot rack. That year I cooked everything from pot roast to pad Thai.

Finally, there I was: thesis done, baccalaureate exam complete and osso buco bubbling away in the oven. Unfortunately that oven was in one of the lounges-three flights down and in another dorm.  

Fortunately, I was able to do most of the preparation in my room. Working from Marcella Hazan's Essentials of Italian Cooking, I sautéed onion, carrot, celery, garlic and lemon peel, then spread the mixture across the bottom of my red Le Crueset Dutch oven (a summer paycheck well spent). Next, I trussed, floured and browned the veal shanks until they took on a deep, walnut-colored crust. I removed them to the oval Dutch oven and deglazed the pan with white wine and then beef broth. I then poured that over the shanks. Finally, I crushed up roughly half a dozen canned tomatoes, sprinkled them over the veal and tucked sprigs of parsley, thyme and bay leaves around the meat.

The final step before placing the pot in the oven was to bring all of the contents to a simmer. Rather than carrying a bubbling pot of meat down three flights of stairs, I opted to do this step on the stovetop of the lounge oven. With one of my roommates to help open doors on the way down, I carried the roughly twenty pounds of cast iron, veal and sauce to the oven, which I had already preheated.

Every time I baked something in one of the communal kitchens, I made sure to leave a note saying that the oven was preheating. I often feared that some well-meaning soul would walk by, notice a hot oven with nothing in it, and turn it off. Still worse were the times I'd gone down to preheat an oven only to find it already in use-an anonymous tray of brownies or a frozen pizza staring out at me. Apparently I wasn't alone in this frustration. At one point, someone posted a sign-up sheet for the oven; not to monopolize, the sign said, but simply to help curb oven timing conflicts. Fortunately, no one else needed to use the oven on this occasion. Just in case, I put my name on the sheet. I brought the veal and sauce to a simmer and then slid the pot gently onto the oven rack, which quivered under the pot's weight. In roughly two hours, I would have osso buco; I needed only to turn and baste the shanks now and then.

Initially, I decided that since I was going to take the time to prepare this dish, I should do it justice by serving it in the traditional manner: atop a bed of saffron-flecked risotto Milanese.

Risotto wasn't something I often made in the dorms, mainly because controlling the heat on the cheap and often-abused electric ranges was nearly impossible. When I could dial the heat in correctly, my risotto was great. Other times, what I had after half an hour of stirring was something more like sandy oatmeal.

The fact that my meat was in one building and my starch was in another meant that I'd have to figure out some sort of timing compromise. I decided to wait until the osso buco was complete before I started the risotto, which wouldn't take more than a half an hour. The cast iron pot would stay warm for a while anyway. After two hours of basting, the veal was indeed ready to fall off the bone, and, had it not been for the butcher's twine, it would have. I brought the covered pot back to my room and let it rest while I set about making the risotto. I usually don't ask for help when I cook, but risotto is one of those things where I won't hesitate to tell anyone around to "stir this for a while." 

Finally, it was done.

Words can rarely do justice to the flavors of osso buco. There is a harmony that occurs among certain ingredients that cannot be fully described. Everything melds together to create a flavor both gentle and consuming, which is then distilled into the small caverns of quivering marrow. The sauce from the veal thins the risotto a bit; the meat falls apart at the slightest nudge of the fork.

I brought the entire pot to the table and arranged the shanks on a platter. I handed out plates and forks for my friends and roommates to serve themselves. Knives were not necessary.