"I think we should take a cooking class."
Penny announces this while eating takeout Thai on my couch.
"Why?"
"Because we exclusively eat takeout. That can't be healthy."
"I have a perfectly functional kitchen."
"That you never use."
"I use the microwave."
"Reheating leftovers doesn't count."
She's got a point. The Sub-Zero refrigerator in my penthouse mostly contains beer, leftover pizza, and condints of questionable age.
"What kind of cooking class?" I ask carefully.
"Couples cooking class. Learn together. Do couple things that don't involve comic books or Marvel Studios or watching you do spreadsheets."
"I do very exciting spreadsheets."
"Stuart."
"Fine. Cooking class. But I'm warning you—I'm terrible at cooking."
"How terrible?"
"I once set water on fire."
"That's—that's not physically possible."
"I found a way."
The culinary school is in Pasadena. Tuesday and Thursday evenings, four-week course, Italian cuisine basics.
We're the youngest couple in the class by about fifteen years.
Everyone else is serious. Matching aprons. Organized ingredient stations. The couple next to us has a COLOR-CODED MISE EN PLACE.
"We're so out of our depth," Penny whispers.
"Too late to leave?"
"Way too late."
The instructor is a woman nad Francesca. Italian accent, stern expression, zero tolerance for nonsense.
"Tonight, we make marinara sauce and fresh pasta. Simple. Classic. No excuses."
She demonstrates. Efficient. Precise. Makes it look effortless.
"Now you try."
I burn the sauce in the first fifteen minutes.
"How?" Francesca demands.
"I—I don't know. I followed your instructions."
"Did you watch the heat?"
"I thought I did?"
She adjusts my burner with a sigh that conveys deep disappointnt.
Penny's over-salting her pasta water.
"TASTE AS YOU GO," Francesca instructs loudly.
"I did taste it!"
"And added more salt?"
"It needed it!"
"It did not need it."
The color-coded couple is glaring at us. Their station is immaculate. Their sauce slls amazing. Their pasta is perfect.
We're a disaster.
"Your garlic is burning," the wife says pleasantly.
"SHIT." Penny scrambles to save it. Knocks over the flour canister.
White powder everywhere.
The color-coded couple's side of the counter gets dusted.
"Sorry! Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"
They smile tightly. Say nothing. Start cleaning with aggressive precision.
Week two is even worse.
We're making risotto and tiramisu.
I sohow manage to curdle the cream.
"It shouldn't even be possible to curdle heavy cream," Francesca says, examining my bowl like it contains a science experint gone wrong.
Penny sets off the smoke alarm with burnt ladyfingers.
The entire class evacuates to the parking lot while the alarm blares.
Color-coded couple stands as far from us as possible.
"Maybe we should drop out," I suggest.
"Maybe," Penny agrees.
Francesca erges from the building. Walks directly toward us.
"You two. Co here."
We approach like students called to the principal's office.
"Your enthusiasm is appreciated," she begins carefully. "But your execution is—"
"Terrible?" Penny supplies.
"Disruptive. Other students are trying to learn. You are creating chaos."
"We're really sorry," I say.
"I'm sure you are." She softens slightly. "But I think perhaps this class is not for you. I'm going to refund your fees."
"You're kicking us out?"
"I'm recomnding you explore other couples activities. Perhaps ones involving less fire hazard."
Walking to the car, we're both silent.
Then Penny starts laughing.
"We got kicked out of cooking class."
"Banned for culinary incompetence."
"Francesca looked so disappointed."
"Color-coded couple looked murderous."
We're both laughing now. Genuine, uncontrolled laughter.
"We're disasters," Penny manages.
"Complete disasters."
"But like—together disasters."
"The best kind."
We reach the car. I unlock it but neither of us gets in.
"You know what?" Penny leans against the passenger door. "That was actually really fun."
"We got kicked out."
"I know. But like—we failed together. Spectacularly. And it was fun."
She's right.
lissa would've been stressed about the failure. Apologized profusely. Been embarrassed.
Penny's laughing about burning ladyfingers and flour explosions and disappointed Italian instructors.
"We're sticking to takeout," I say.
"Absolutely. Forever."
"No more couple's cooking."
"Never again."
"Good."
I kiss her. She tastes like the one thing we managed to make successfully—bruschetta from the first class.
"Thanks for being terrible at cooking with ," she says.
"Thanks for being equally terrible."
"We're such a good team."
"The worst team."
"The BEST worst team."
Driving ho, Penny's already composing her text to the group.
"How do I phrase this? 'Got banned from cooking class for being disasters'?"
"Maybe 'Cooking class didn't work out'?"
"That's boring. I want to emphasize the disaster."
"Then yes. Lead with banned."
She types. Sends.
The responses are imdiate.
Howard: BANNED?! From what?!
Penny: Cooking class. We were too chaotic.
Raj: This is the most on-brand thing I've ever heard.
Leonard: Did you actually get kicked out or did you quit?
Penny: Kicked out. Instructor refunded our money.
Sheldon: Culinary education requires discipline and attention to detail. This outco was predictable.
: Thanks Sheldon. Very supportive.
Sheldon: I provide statistical analysis, not emotional support.
Penny's grinning at her phone.
"Think we should try another class? Like—pottery or sothing?"
"Absolutely not. We're embracing our inability to learn new skills together."
"So we're just gonna be good at comics and bad at everything else?"
"Sounds perfect."
"It really does."
She reaches over, takes my hand while I'm driving.
"I love this," she says quietly.
"What?"
"That we can be complete failures and just—laugh about it. That's—I've never had that before."
" neither."
"Dan would've blad for the smoke alarm."
"lissa would've apologized for burning the sauce."
"We just—laughed."
"Yeah."
"That's good, right?"
"That's perfect."
And it is.
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