How (Not) to Cook Up a Perfect Romance

The Recipe for Disaster

They say that food is the way to the heart. I believed it. Growing up in Chile, my mother’s kitchen was the epicenter of our home. The sound of sizzling onions, the vibrant colors of ají peppers, and the aroma of freshly baked empanadas weren’t just meals—they were love manifest. So, when a whirlwind romance with an enchanting Spaniard swept me off my feet during my time in Madrid, I decided to impress him with a grand, romantic dinner. After all, what could be more seductive than a South American feast infused with cariño?

Spoiler alert: A lot of things, actually.

The Menu of Mayhem

For context, my Spanish muse—let's call him Emilio—was the kind of man who could casually reference 13th-century poetry while opening a bottle of red wine. Swoon. Early in our courtship, he mentioned his love for culinary adventures, which I foolishly took as a personal challenge.

The plan? A three-course meal that would blend the flavors of my Chilean upbringing with a touch of Spanish cuisine to show him I had truly listened. I imagined us laughing over sobremesa, the light flickering from a candle, the entire evening an Almodóvar film-level of romance.

Here’s what I hadn’t accounted for:

  1. I overestimated my skills.
    My cooking expertise was firmly in the “can throw together a decent cazuela and not burn toast” category. But I had convinced myself that I was practically the next Gastón Acurio when I decided to bake pastelitos de choclo from scratch.

  2. Madrid in August is essentially an oven.
    Did you know that corn husks don’t cooperate when your apartment feels like the surface of the sun? Neither did I. I spent hours sweating over a tiny kitchen fan, muttering about "míseros choclos" while mashing corn into something vaguely edible.

  3. Timing is everything—except I had none of it.
    If you’ve ever tried balancing multiple dishes with overlapping cook times while jamming to Mercedes Sosa to stay upbeat, you know it’s a tightrope act. One plate of shrimp ceviche suffered tragically from negligence, and don’t even get me started on trying to caramelize onions without turning them into bitter little crisps.

By the time Emilio arrived, I looked less like a poised chef in control of her domain and more like someone who had escaped a paprika explosion. My apron was all red smudges, and there was a wilted cilantro leaf stuck in my hair. Still, I smiled at him like I hadn't just committed culinary war crimes.

When Things Hit the (Literal) Fan

The door had barely closed when disaster struck. At least, it smelled like disaster.

I’d forgotten to turn the burner off under the pot of quinoa (because yes, I was ambitious enough to DIY quinoa-stuffed bell peppers, don’t ask), and tendrils of smoke began to curl around my carefully staged dinner setup. Emilio, bless his poetic soul, tried to stifle his laugh as I sprang into action—if action means flailing a kitchen towel around like a flag of surrender. It probably didn’t help that my smoke alarm speaks rapid Catalán instead of Spanish.

The grand reveal of the meal involved:

  • A pastelito so tough Emilio politely referred to it as “al dente.”
  • Room-temperature shrimp ceviche that I wouldn’t have even fed my neighbor’s cat.
  • A red wine pairing chosen only because I liked the label.

At one point, the bell peppers tipped over on the plate, bleeding quinoa and melted cheese in a scene reminiscent of a culinary crime show.

The Takeaway (Besides the Pizza We Ordered)

Something strange happened after I gave up trying to salvage the evening. As we lounged on the couch with greasy fingers, devouring a pizza delivered by a perpetually unimpressed teenager, Emilio leaned over and said, “This is honestly the best dinner I’ve had in ages.”

At first, I thought he was just being nice. Then I realized he wasn’t talking about the food.

The elaborate plan to wow him—the candlelit table, the fancy menu, the handmade everything—none of it mattered. What mattered was the shared laughter as we poked fun at my failed attempts, the way we rolled on the floor in tears trying to figure out what my smoke alarm was screeching about. Beneath the chaos, we’d landed on something unexpected: authenticity.

Lessons in Love and the Blazing Kitchen

If there’s anything I learned that night (besides the limits of what one can caramelize), it’s that vulnerability trumps perfection every time. Romance isn’t choreographed; it’s messy, accidental, and often involves cheese stains. Perfection might impress someone initially, but imperfection is where connection blooms.

Here are some takeaways from my misadventure for anyone trying to turn up the heat—figuratively or literally—in their relationship:

  1. Simplify, always.
    First dates (or fifth) aren’t auditions for MasterChef. Aim for something that’s meaningful but manageable—like a dish you’ve made before or even just sharing your favorite takeout over good conversation.

  2. Embrace the unexpected.
    Not everything will go according to plan, and that’s okay. Sometimes the most memorable moments come from mistakes (or charred quinoa).

  3. Be kind to yourself.
    Romance is not about proving your worth through extravagant gestures. It’s about making someone feel seen and appreciated. Whether you cook a four-course meal or burn popcorn in the microwave, what matters is your intention.

  4. Laugh. A lot.
    If you can laugh together at a smoking pot of quinoa, you’re probably off to a good start.

The Sweet Aftertaste

Emilio and I didn’t end up together forever, but we stuck around long enough to make a few more ridiculous memories—and, fortunately, never to attempt pastelitos again.

Sometimes, when I remember that evening, I think about how love, like homemade meals, doesn’t require perfection—it just needs warmth, patience, and a little salt. And when it all goes up in smoke? Well, there’s always pizza.