The first time she offered to cook for me, I should have known it was a trap.
She wore an apron that said “Kiss the Chef (Or Else)” and greeted me at the door with flour on her nose and sauce in her hair.
“Tonight,” she declared, “I’m going to prove I’m wife material.”
“You already are,” I said automatically.
She grinned. “Good answer. But after this meal, you’re going to beg me to marry you again.”
I did beg that night—just not for what she expected.
—
The kitchen looked like a cooking show had been ambushed by a tornado. There were open spice jars, a pan on fire (briefly), and what might have been a carrot… or a sad orange chunk of soap.
“Smells… creative,” I said, trying not to inhale too deeply.
“It’s called freestyle cooking,” she replied proudly. “I followed a recipe until I got bored and then improved it.”
Improved it.
She handed me a bowl of something that resembled curry but smelled like regret.
“Bon appétit!” she said cheerfully.
—
I took a bite.
My life flashed before my eyes.
It was sour, sweet, salty, crunchy, and also somehow… fizzy?
“Is that soda?” I asked, trying not to weep.
“Just a splash. For flavor.”
I chugged water and prayed to the ancestors.
She watched me with such hopeful eyes that I forced a smile and said, “It’s very… experimental.”
“Right?! I invented a new genre of taste!”
“Genre is the right word,” I muttered.
—
The next day, I woke up with a stomach that declared war on all future meals.
She noticed my pale face and worried expression and rushed to my side.
“Oh no. Was it that bad?”
“No, no, just… intense. Like a flavor explosion. A nuclear one.”
She gasped. “So memorable?”
“So unforgettable.”
She looked devastated. I hated it.
So I pulled her close and said, “Look, not every great chef starts perfect. You just need a little more practice… and fewer ingredients.”
She smiled. “You really mean that?”
“Yes. And maybe next time, let’s cook together. I’ll be your assistant.”
She brightened. “Aw! That’s so romantic! You’ll cut the vegetables while I work my magic!”
I whispered to myself: “And hide the soda.”
—
Later, I found her googling “how not to poison your husband (accidentally)” with a determined look in her eyes.
I hugged her from behind and kissed her flour-dusted cheek.
Even if she burned the kitchen down every time, I’d still come back for more.
Because somehow, she managed to make chaos taste like love.
—
To be continued…
