Life | Food | Love
Cooking Up Some Love
The burnt art of romantic dining
The first time when I tried cooking a romantic meal, I was a nervous wreck.
With a recipe I didn’t quite follow, and a romantic ember I didn’t quite braze, I approached the kitchen like Jane Goodall and stared at my bestial enemies: the chicken stock, the soy sauce, and the onion.
The stove was Mount Everest, and the food? Well, let’s just say it never made it to the coffee table.
‘Hey, you want my help?’ A voice came from the living room. It felt like the voice of Divine.
My ex was there to help me pick it up. She’s always been like this, that’s part of the appeal.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘I’ll be fine.’ I rushed to the oven, slid out the chicken, and set it on the stove-top.
I poured out the fat and threw it into the sink. As I slid the bird back into the oven, a greasy splatter caught my eye. I retrieved a scotch-brite from the back of the cupboard and rubbed the old oven.
I put back the scotch-brite. I washed the splatter in the sink with a tea towel and walked to my altar before the window, where half a skinny candle burned reminiscing its glorious past.
I lit sticks of sandalwood incense. The kitchen filled with haze as hornet sounds buzzed and fuzzed.
I looked out at the gunmetal grey sky and pulled my hood over my head. ‘This is dedication,’ I thought to myself. ‘This might turn out terrible. What if the dinner burns? What if it tastes like cardboard?’
Several hours later, after several false starts, a number of burned pans, and one near kitchen fire (really, don’t ask), the meal was ready. We sat down on a candlelit couch, and began to take our first mouthfuls.
“So, what do you think?” I asked, holding my breath.
“It’s…unique,” my ex replied, trying not to grimace.
I was a crushed bug. All that time and effort had gone into a resounding so unique failure. 😅
I started to teach myself some basic culinary arts. I watched cooking shows, read cookbooks. My food eventually got better.
Today, having moved on from those days of burning dinners and culinary calamities, they provide anecdotal fun.
I laugh about how far I’ve come. I remember the terrible dinners I put on the table, and see how far the taste has improved.
‘So what is for dinner?’ my friend asks cheerfully these days as we walk into the kitchen.
‘Something special.’ ‘Something special!’ I say, more forcefully than I intended, but suddenly less worried.
‘Just… trust me.’
And at some point I did realize that it does not matter if your dinner is any good at all!
Whether the dinner is savory, delicious and unforgettably brilliant or plain good enough, what makes this special are the memories we make together. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what’s on the table — it’s what’s in our hearts. Now my stomach is growling! 😂
