It was my senior year of college and my journalism professor had assigned us the fairly straightforward task of making a dish and writing about it. But I had a problem: I lived in a sorority house where an antiquated microwave, communal refrigerator, and beat-up toaster comprised our entire kitchen.
I could have asked asked to borrow a friend’s stove or oven (or knives or measuring cups), but procrastination a jam-packed schedule left me no other option but to MacGyver a recipe I knew all too well: Oreo balls.
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