During university, I was desperate to impress a girl I really liked. I decided the best way to her heart was through her stomach, despite the minor detail that I didn't actually know how to cook.
I briefly considered passing off a flame-grilled chicken from Coimbra as my own, but settled instead on a "foolproof" plan: a Woolworth’s ready-made chicken lasagna. I figured if I kept it in the oven long enough to look authentic, she’d never know.
The evening began perfectly. Soft music was playing, candles were flickering, and I pulled the lasagna out with a flourish, making sure she heard the "hard work" I’d put in all day. We sat down, looked into each other's eyes, and tucked in simultaneously.
Horror of horrors. As my knife hit the center, there was a distinct, metallic crackle. The lasagna wasn't just undercooked; the middle was a solid block of ice. I was officially busted. As I sheepishly retreated to the microwave to perform a high-voltage resurrection on our dinner, I tried to pivot to damage control.
"Champagne?" I offered, grabbing a bottle to lighten the mood.
I popped the cork. In a display of physics that would have baffled a scientist, the cork ricocheted off the wall, banked off the ceiling, and flew back with pinpoint accuracy to strike my date directly in the back of the head.
I went in trying to be a romantic lead; I left as a man who had nearly frozen his date’s digestive system and then physically assaulted her with a grape-based projectile.
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