I once spent three hours wandering a dusty Civil War battleground with a man whose idea of a romantic gesture was reenacting a bayonet charge. That moment, surprisingly, wasn’t even the weirdest thing I’ve done for a story. No, that honor goes to the time I joined a couples’ cooking class—alone—undercover. Why? Because love, like soufflé, will collapse without the right foundation. And also because my editor dared me.

How I Found Myself in This Situation

It started innocently enough: my editor wanted me to write about unconventional ways couples could rekindle their spark. Think salsa dancing, trust falls, or goat yoga (why do goats feature so heavily in modern romance?). But a cooking class, she said, had just the right mix of practicality and intimacy. “You’ll go in, observe the magic, and write about how cooking brings people together,” she explained.

“Sure!” I chirped, imagining flirty couples tossing shrimp into sizzling pans. But when she added, “Oh, by the way, tell them you’re there with your boyfriend... except he got stuck at work. Really lean into it,” I nearly choked on my iced coffee. Apparently, nothing says 'insightful journalism' like playing a culinary third wheel.

Setting the Scene

The kitchen smelled like butter, garlic, and Chardonnay—basically heaven on earth. Couples were paired off at individual workstations, each equipped with cutting boards, knives, and twinkling candlelight. Everyone looked annoyingly in love, the kind of people who probably share playlists and call each other pet names in public. There were the high school sweethearts, giggling over their measly attempt at mincing cilantro. The young professionals in matching aprons, clearly vying for “Most Instagrammable Couple” status. And then me: an overachiever in lipstick and pearls who looked like she’d wandered in from a book club meeting.

When the instructor cheerfully asked, “Where’s your partner tonight?” I smiled and launched into my pre-prepared cover story. “Oh, he’s just slammed at the office. IPO season—you know how it is!” IPO? Seriously? I’m not sure why I felt the need to invent a fictional finance bro. Maybe it was leftover trauma from growing up in a Buckhead cocktail culture where every third person specialized in hedge funds. Either way, I might as well have shouted, “I’m lying!”

When Things Got Weird

The first task was making pasta from scratch—romantic in theory, wildly inefficient in execution. The couples dove in with adorable abandon, flour flying everywhere. Most adventurous was a guy named Chad, who flourished his crushed pepper grinder like he starred in his own Food Network special. Chad’s wife, Lauren, shot him a look so sharp I briefly forgot about my cover story. Then, because Lauren took pity on me (or perhaps feared I'd accidentally sabotage our communal pasta dough), she invited me to join them as an auxiliary teammate.

Now a substitute third in their marital kitchen duel, I worked overtime not to ruin the vibe. But let me tell you: there’s no greater social experiment than watching strangers attempt culinary harmony under high stakes. Chad insisted that “recipes are just suggestions,” while Lauren—bless her—tried to keep him from reinventing bolognese. Did I say anything while Chad poured a suspicious amount of Worcestershire sauce into a pot? I did not. Journalism is about observing, after all.

Some Important Lessons

By the end of the class, our pasta was lumpy, our crème brûlée was scorched, but our spirits were fully intact. Here’s what I learned from the experience:

  1. Cooking is a surprisingly accurate metaphor for relationships.
    Some couples are “follow-the-recipe” types, while others chuck measurements out the window and hope for the best. Watching them work together—or fail together—revealed more about their dynamic than any Myers-Briggs test ever could.

  2. Mishaps are half the fun.
    One couple accidentally set their napkin on fire (Chad, obviously) and turned it into a hilarious bonding moment. Mistakes, it turns out, offer equal parts humility and humor, both of which happen to be essential ingredients in love.

  3. Shared effort matters more than outcomes.
    None of us were going to win a Michelin star that night, but the act of muddling through something together created camaraderie. Even for me—solo, flour-covered, and strangely charmed by the chaos.

What I Took Away

As someone who came of age surrounded by Southern charm and societal expectations, this was a much-needed reminder: relationships aren’t built on elaborate grand gestures or curated Instagram moments. They’re forged in the ordinary, messy act of showing up—with or without Worcestershire sauce. And while my time playing culinary intruder involved a touch more lying than I’m proud of, it gave me an inside look at the resilience and humor that keep couples afloat.

So, would I recommend signing up for a cooking class? Absolutely. But maybe bring your actual partner—or at least make sure your fictional finance bro has a more convincing backstory.