Why a meal cooked by a lover so delicious, even when it tastes awful

A meal cooked by a lover is the ultimate way of showing they care, be it an old lady cooking chicken soup for her sickly grandson, a mum making a ham sandwich for her heartbroken daughter, or a neighbour sharing her leftover lardy cake with the lonely man next door (I doubt this last scenario has occurred since the 1950s, but I like to imagine that it does).

So, being cooked for by someone else is always a nice feeling, but being cooked for by a lover simply hits different, even if the food is bad. I fear the Netflix and chill movement means that romantic, home-cooked meals are less common. Instead of your beau slaving over a candlelit supper, your beau now scrolls through Zomato. Why would he cook when he can get 2-for-1 on pizza with a side of sticky-finger chicken wings and a volcanically large bottle of fizzy pop? All of that delicious salt and processed meat? Followed by a bangathon and some TV? I understand the appeal, I must admit.

But if, on the off chance, a lover does cook for you, you should take note of just how special it is. Likewise, if you get the opportunity to cook for them, you should savour that sweet little look of “feeling loved” it paints across their face.

When I was 18 and in my first relationship, my boyfriend made me his famous Thai chicken curry. Him being a posh suburban white lad with no experience of cooking (or eating) good Thai food, the outcome was… diabolical. Stodgy clumps of rice swam across my plate, drowning in a sea of tepid and bland “green” curry. The coconut cream was not cooked out, the heat was non-existent, the Thai basil was still in the shop he hadn’t gone to, the chicken was tough and the presentation was grotesque. But my God, this meal was heavenly. This dish was more than a plate of food, it was a symbol of his commitment, his dedication, his love for me. I gobbled up every last chunk of grey chicken, and it’s still one of the best Thai curries I’ve ever had: my stomach satiated by love, not flavour.

In my twenties, I had an affair with an older man, and after a particularly spectacular night of corporate rumpy pumpy, I woke to the smell of toast. I stumbled into the kitchen and found that he’d gone all out and prepared a full brunch spread: eggs, fruit, smoked salmon, pastries, farmers market bread and good coffee. He had this fancy contraption to make coffee, which I now know to be a cafetière. I was violently hungover, and when I saw the extensive display, it overwhelmed me. As I slept, he had gone out and sourced the ingredients, brought them home and prepared them—for me! I imagined him whisking the eggs, like a handsome Julia Child. I went to the bathroom to puke, but I did it silently so he wouldn’t know. Against the odds, I kept it all down. My stomach was hungry not for his food, but for his love.