So, this happened last night, and I'm still cringing at the thought of it. There's this girl I've been crushing on for a while now, and I finally managed to grow a pair and ask her out. She said yes, and I decided to invite her over to my place for dinner. I thought, "Hey, I can cook a decent meal, and chicks dig guys who can cook, right?" Oh boy, how wrong I was.
I decided to make some fancy-ass pasta dish I saw on one of those cooking shows. You know, the kind where they use words like "al dente" and "reduction" to make it sound like they're doing some next-level shit. I went all out, bought the ingredients, and even got a bottle of wine to set the mood.
Fast forward to the evening, she arrives, and I'm already sweating bullets. I start cooking, trying to play it cool, like I'm some sort of culinary genius. She's sitting at the counter, watching me, and I can feel the pressure mounting. I'm chopping onions like a madman, trying to impress her with my knife skills, when I accidentally slice my finger. Blood starts gushing out, and I'm trying to play it off like it's no big deal. She's clearly concerned, but I assure her it's just a flesh wound.
I wrap my finger in a paper towel, and soldier on like the culinary warrior I am. I toss the pasta into the boiling water, and in my haste, I forget to set a timer. No biggie, I think, I'll just wing it. Meanwhile, I'm trying to make small talk, but my mind is racing, and I'm pretty sure I'm just spewing out random facts about pasta and Italian cuisine. She's nodding along, probably questioning her life choices at this point.
As I'm stirring the sauce, I realize I haven't tasted it yet. I grab a spoon, take a taste, and it's saltier than the Dead Sea. I must've mistaken the salt container for the sugar one in my nervous state. Panicking, I remember reading somewhere that adding a potato can help absorb the excess salt. So, I grab a potato, peel it, and chuck it into the sauce like it's some sort of magical salt-absorbing grenade.
I finally decide to check on the pasta, and it's turned into a mushy, overcooked mess. At this point, I'm ready to admit defeat, but I figure I've come this far, so I might as well see it through. I drain the pasta, plate it up, and pour the sauce over it, potato and all. I set the plates down, trying to hide my shame, and we dig in.
The first bite is a disaster. The pasta is a soggy mess, the sauce is still saltier than a sailor's vocabulary, and the potato is just sitting there, mocking me. She's trying to be polite, but I can see that she is going to need a gallon of water to wash down this culinary catastrophe.
I refuse to admit defeat, so I muster up the most convincing smile I can and say, "Bon appétit!" She hesitates for a moment, then takes another bite, clearly trying to be polite. I can see the fear in her eyes, but I just keep shoveling the salty, soggy disaster into my mouth, pretending like it's the best thing I've ever tasted.
As we continue eating, I try to salvage the situation by making more small talk, but it's clear that the culinary catastrophe has taken its toll on the evening. She's giving me one-word answers and nervously glancing at the door, probably planning her escape route.
Finally, she can't take it anymore. She puts down her fork, looks me dead in the eye, and says, "I'm sorry, but I just remembered I have an early morning tomorrow. I should probably get going." I can see the relief wash over her face as she stands up, and I know I've royally screwed up.
