My First Big Failure

Failure has a way of teaching you lessons you never signed up for, in a language you never agreed to learn. For me, that lesson came wrapped in a ball of bread dough, streaked with tears and a hefty helping of embarrassment. Let me explain.

Kneading a Dream

The year was 2012, and I had just moved to Madrid for my master’s degree in Cultural Studies. Wide-eyed and ready to conquer the world—or at least its literary traditions—I had also packed something else in my suitcase: the ambitious dream of channeling my late grandmother’s culinary magic. She had been the patron saint of empanadas in my Santiago neighborhood, and I was convinced that her legacy would live on with me.

So when my roommate signed us up for a local artisan market, I decided to make Chilean empanadas from scratch. Was I experienced in baking? No. Did I own the right tools in our tiny Spanish kitchen that doubled as a dance floor during late-night reggaetón marathons? Absolutely not. Yet, armed with my grandmother’s memory and a slightly-too-confident "How hard can it be?" attitude, I dove into the task.

What followed was… well… disaster in its purest form.

Salsa Problems and Crusty Realities

I began Saturday morning with so much optimism. My plan was delicate: flaky crusts filled with a silky beef and raisin filling, seasoned to perfection, just like abuelita used to make. But cooking in a foreign country introduces a host of unanticipated challenges:

  1. The Mystery of Spanish Flour
    Did you know not all flour is created equal? I didn’t at the time. It turns out European flour has a different protein content than what I grew up using in Chile. My dough—which should have been pliable and elastic—resembled the texture of what I can only describe as wet cement left in a humid basement.

  2. The Raisin-Hater Debacle
    I’ll never forget a neighbor’s face when I enthusiastically mentioned the raisins in my filling. “Raisins? In meat pies? Muy raro.” Unbeknownst to me, this was not the charming cross-cultural exchange I had imagined but a massive red flag for my would-be customers.

  3. The Oven Betrayal
    Our shared apartment oven was more decorative than functional. Its temperature control was erratic at best, malevolent at worst. Some empanadas burned in five minutes flat, while others came out as pale as Edward Cullen in Twilight.

By the time we set up our little market stall, I had about 15 edible empanadas out of the 40 I attempted, an exhausted body covered in flour, and a bruise to my ego.

When No One Comes to Your Table

At the artisan market, our stall was surrounded by vendors selling dreamy Mediterranean olive oils, artisan bread, and imported saffron. Meanwhile, my empanadas sat there like shy party guests, unsure of where to go.

And then it happened. The first customer of the day—a middle-aged woman with the bearing of someone who runs a food blog—took one bite, put it down, and walked away. She didn’t even swallow.

I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

The morning dragged on with very few sales—mostly pity purchases by kind-hearted strangers and over-supportive friends. My roommate joked that we could rebrand as a booth selling flour sculptures. By mid-afternoon, I had to laugh through tears as vendors around me packed up their nearly sold-out tables while I was left with a tray of sad, forgotten empanadas.

I went home that night, dumped the remaining empanadas in the trash, and called my mother for solace. Her response? Laughter. “Mija, these things happen. Your grandmother’s first baking attempts were so bad your abuelo thought she was trying to poison him!”

It was the first moment I truly relaxed that day.

Recipes Aren’t Life Scripts

In the weeks that followed, I reflected on that experience, not just through the lens of disappointment but with genuine curiosity. I had approached baking—not to mention blending food traditions—as if there was a foolproof recipe to follow, one that would instantly work despite new tools, new ingredients, and a wholly different context.

But life, much like a good empanada, requires adaptation. It doesn’t matter if you think you have all the right ingredients; if you’re stubbornly trying to recreate old memories in completely new conditions, you’re going to flub it every time.

The truth is, failure has flavor. It’s rarely pleasant in the moment, but it seasons your outlook in ways success never could. That botched empanada venture taught me far more than I initially realized, and over the years, I’ve applied those lessons beyond the kitchen.

What Empanadas Taught Me About Resilience

You might not think baking has much in common with dating, relationships, or life in general, but it’s incredible how often we all find ourselves kneading through challenges, trying to get things “just right.” Here are three lessons I’ve carried with me from that day of doughy disaster to bigger, brighter moments:

  • 1. Perfection is a myth worth letting go.
    The pursuit of perfection can paralyze us. Whether you’re baking bread, trying to impress someone new, or navigating an argument with a partner, remember: it’s okay to mess up. Actually, it’s great to mess up. Mistakes remind us we’re human, and they’re often where growth hides.

  • 2. Context matters—adapt accordingly.
    Trying to duplicate old recipes—or old relationship habits—in a completely new environment rarely works. Whether you’re stepping into a new city, a new culture, or a new commitment, life demands creativity and flexibility.

  • 3. Don’t take yourself too seriously (or forget to laugh).
    That woman who spat out my empanada was awful, yes, but also... kind of hilarious in hindsight. The key to resilience? Finding the humor in moments that, at first glance, seem like utter catastrophes.

Failure is Fertile Ground

When I think back to that failed day at the market, I no longer feel embarrassed. This story, like any good recipe, improves with time. It’s become something I can serve to others—not as empanadas (God no)—but as a reminder to embrace whatever comes next.

Because as much as failure stings, it also liberates. Once you’ve faced public humiliation over dough, you’re strangely more open to risks in other parts of your life. Cross-cultural relationships, new cities, bold career moves—they don’t seem so daunting anymore.

So, to the amateur bakers, aspiring lovers, and hopeful humans out there: mess up. Burn the edges. Laugh about it later. Whatever’s next is sweeter because you dared to try in the first place.