The Buttered Cat Debacle: Why Trying Too Hard Can Backfire

When I was 24, fresh out of Northwestern and feeling like I had the world on a string, I decided to plan the perfect date. You know the one—romantic, spontaneous but not chaotic, a little like a John Legend song brought to life. With the confidence of someone who just moved into their first apartment and had exactly two framed posters on the wall (one of them was Miles Davis, obviously), I believed I could orchestrate something unforgettable. Spoiler alert: I did. But not for the reasons I intended.

Her name was Raven. We had met at a spoken word event in Hyde Park, where she performed a piece about her grandmother’s garden and how collard greens taught her about resilience. I was hooked. She was whip-smart, could rock a leather jacket like no one’s business, and replied to text messages with full thoughts and punctuation—a rarity in the age of LOLs and emojis. We were only a couple of dates in, but I was already daydreaming about that rare alchemy of two people who could be real with each other.

Naturally, I decided to go big for date three. And what better way to do that than by cooking dinner? Cue the planning montage: me in the grocery store, me watching YouTube tutorials, me texting my mom to clarify what she meant by “a pinch” of seasoning. I settled on a menu that screamed “look at me, I am cultured but approachable”: braised lamb shanks, roasted asparagus, and chocolate soufflé. Never mind that my cooking skills at the time peaked with scrambled eggs—how hard could it be?

The vibe I was going for was Anthony Bourdain meets Duke Ellington. The vibe I landed on was closer to stand-up comedy meets kitchen disaster.

Mistake #1: Overcomplicating the Plan

The lesson here? Ambition without skill is what happens when you try to be LeBron but forget to stretch first. I didn’t just aim high. I aimed ludicrously high. Braising lamb shanks is not an inherently bad idea, but doing it in a kitchen the size of a postage stamp with zero practice? That’s a recipe for stress.

By the time Raven arrived, I was already sweating through my shirt. The lamb wasn’t done, the asparagus was cold, and my chocolate soufflé looked like an existential crisis in ramekin form. Her entrance only added to the pressure. She walked in looking like she’d stepped out of an indie film—effortlessly cool, carrying a jazz vinyl she thought I’d appreciate. I wanted to fall into the floorboards. Instead, I offered her a glass of red wine and tried my best to channel smooth, unbothered vibes.

Pro tip: If you ever find yourself asking, “Do I look as panicked as I feel right now?” the answer is always yes.

Mistake #2: The Kitchen Catastrophe

Here’s where things go from messy to catastrophic. While checking on the lamb (but really stalling for time), I knocked over an open jar of honey. The honey dripped directly onto the oven burner, which, as you might expect, burst into flames. Raven screamed. I screamed. Somewhere in my head, the smooth sounds of jazz were replaced with the mental equivalent of a car alarm.

In an act of desperation—and only a touch of brilliance—I threw baking soda on the flames. It worked, but my kitchen now resembled the aftermath of a minor volcanic eruption. Raven, to her credit, did not immediately run for the hills. Instead, she grabbed a dish towel, waved it at the smoke, and muttered something about “controlled chaos.” I wanted to believe that was a compliment.

Mistake #3: Forgetting That Simplicity Is Sexy

Here’s the thing I know now: I didn’t have to make braised lamb or soufflé. I didn’t have to impress her with anything beyond myself. Raven didn’t walk into my apartment hoping for a Michelin-starred experience. She came to spend time with me—just me. In hindsight, a simple dinner—pasta, wine, laughter—would have done the trick. Less showmanship, more connection.

Instead, I created enough tension to power Chicago’s CTA during rush hour. By the time we sat down—two plates of hastily reheated lamb shank in front of us—the mood was less date night and more post-fire drill. To my surprise, she dug in. “This is good,” she said. I wasn’t sure if she was being kind or if adrenaline had simply activated her appetite, but I’ll take what I can get.

Lessons Learned: The Real Recipe for Connection

That night didn’t end with a kiss in the rain or a soulful saxophone solo. The dinner happened, as imperfect as it was, and we laughed about it for months afterward. While Raven and I eventually drifted apart, that date taught me lessons that have stayed with me. Here’s what I’ve got for you if you’re planning your own “let me show you I’m worth it” night:

  1. Start Where You Are. If all you know how to make is tacos, make the best tacos of your life. Mastery isn’t what matters—effort is. People can smell authenticity like fresh cookies.

  2. Don’t Overthink It. The key to connection isn’t in the complexity of the plan but the sincerity of the execution. Light some candles, put on a good playlist, and let the moment breathe.

  3. How You Handle the Crisis Matters. Things will go wrong. A glass might break; the food might burn. How you react in those moments will tell them more about you than any perfectly cooked meal ever could. Be gracious, be adaptable, and laugh it off.

The Takeaway: The Magic Is in the Mess

These days, when I think about romance, I think about harmony—not a curated Pinterest-perfect version of it, but the kind that comes when two people are fully present. It’s less about impressing someone and more about showing up as your complicated, work-in-progress self. The kind of self who might burn dinner but will at least make sure there’s wine and conversation to fall back on.

Looking back, I’m grateful for that flaming honey incident. It taught me that perfection is overrated, but sincerity? That’s the real spark. So the next time the oven catches fire—literally or metaphorically—lean into it. The magic just might be in the mess.