When we first got married, Karen was working at a bank, and I was in retail management. That meant we kept opposite hours most of the time—her 9 to 5 versus my “whatever the schedule says this week.” Sometimes the only way we had dinner together was if she drove to the store where I worked and ate with me in the break room.

But one night, we were both home. A rare thing. And Karen decided she was going to make a nice dinner for the two of us.

Chicken Marsala.

Karen got the recipe, lined up the ingredients, and started cooking. This was early in our marriage—seventeen years ago or so. She’s a fantastic cook now. Like, light-a-candle-and-make-you-question-your-life-choices good. But back then? Let's just say Chicken Marsala night was...a learning experience.

The kitchen smelled amazing. We sat down, plates full. I took a bite of salad, then moved to the chicken.

And y’all, the Marsala was marsala-ing. If that chicken had been pulled over, it would’ve failed the breathalyzer and ended up in a holding cell for the night.

But I was a newlywed husband. So I did what any smart man in my shoes would do: take a bite, chewed a few times...and swallowed it. Then, it was rinse and repeat.

Karen took a bite of hers and didn’t say a word. So neither did I.

We just…ate our salads in peace.

After a few minutes of silence (and several forkfuls of lettuce), Karen looked at me and said what my soul had been silently praying to hear:

“This just doesn’t taste that good. I followed the recipe.”

I dropped my fork with a clatter.
“Thank goodness you said that! It doesn’t. I don’t think the wine cooked off like it was supposed to.”

We laughed. A real, head-thrown-back kind of laugh. Then we finished our salads and called it a night.

Two lessons were learned that evening:

One: arguments usually only happen if you let them.
And two: my wife doesn’t need recipes anymore.

Now she just glances at them for inspiration, then trusts her gut. She can whip up everything from meatloaf that hugs your soul to lemon basil chicken that tastes like it came from a five-star kitchen. And shrimp? Forget about it.

That night could’ve gone a different direction. But instead of frustration, we chose laughter.

We’ve learned—over burnt dinners, long workdays, and years of parenting together—that you don’t have to take everything so seriously. That shared humor is a kind of glue. That love doesn’t always look like candlelight dinners; sometimes, it looks like choking down Marsala chicken while making eye contact across the table and trying not to laugh first.

You want to build something that lasts?

You’ve got to learn to laugh—and more importantly, laugh together.

From the Writer

This one’s for the couples out there who’ve survived a tough recipe—or a tough season. For the ones who know that love isn’t built in the big, grand gestures, but in the quiet, funny, sometimes funky dinners in between.

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Can a Bad Dinner Make a Great Marriage?