The Cooking Class That Almost Blinded Me (And the Squid That Broke My Heart)

When something shows up in my life three times, I take it as a sign.  That’s the rule.  I don’t make the rules; I just obey them like a woman who’s read one too many spirituality books. 

The third time someone told me San Miguel de Allende was so amazing, I booked the flight.  

And because I am apparently a glutton for self-improvement and knowledge, I signed up for a cooking class while I was there. The logic felt sound: deepen my appreciation for the culture, walk away with a few recipes, maybe discover a hidden talent for the culinary arts. 

Here is a piece of information that would have been useful before I paid for that class: I don’t like to cook.  I like the idea of cooking.  The candlelight, the chopping board montage, the way it looks in movies right before two people fall in love over a simmering pot of something savory. But the actual act of cooking - and worse, the clean-up after - has never once brought me joy. Cooking and I have the same relationship I have with math. We’re aware of each other. We do not vibe. 

I booked the class anyway.   

The Walk of Denial

On my way there, the thought crossed my mind: you could just not go.  I kept walking.  I am nothing if committed to plans I already regret. 

Once I arrived, we were sorted like Hogwarts houses: the woman who loves to cook and me.  I considered my exits. Bathroom, then just…leave? What were the odds we’d ever cross paths again?  Or I could be honest: “Hey, this genuinely isn’t my thing, it’s not you, it’s me, I’d rather be wandering the streets right now.” Instead, I did what I always do: negotiate with myself like a hostage situation.  It’s just two hours.  You can survive two hours. Little did I know. 

Round One: The Masa

He handed me a bowl of masa. Roll it into balls, weight them, repeat. Fine. Easy.  I finished before I

expected and felt nothing. No accomplishment. No spark. Just a woman standing over dough, waiting for meaning that never arrived. 

Then he opened the squid paste. 

I want to be clear that I did not know squid paste had a smell until that exact moment.  My stomach rolled.  I white-knuckled my gag reflex into submission and thought, very clearly, in my own voice, using my own name: Why didn’t you listen, Tracy?  You should’ve just left, Tracy.  Yes, I talk to myself in the third person when things go badly.  It’s less “main character energy” and more “internal court proceedings.”   

Those tiny tortillas with the squid circle were rolled out faster than I have ever completed a task in my life, purely so I would not become the first person in the kitchen’s history to throw up on their cutting board. 

Next stop: a dull knife and a mountain of vegetables and peppers. Chopping. By hand. In this economy? I have seen infomercials. I know there are gadgets for this. There is a man in a jumpsuit somewhere yelling, “set it and forget it” directly at situations exactly like mine, and yet here I was, hostage to a blade that couldn’t cut butter. 

I have Sjogren's, an autoimmune thing that makes my eyes chronically dry and itchy, so I already wash my hands more times than strictly necessary. Didn’t think twice about it until the second rub. 

Round Three: The Faucet

I doused my face as it were on fire. Had I been home, I would’ve screamed. Instead, I channeled every ounce of restraint I have ever possessed so as not to become the Overly Dramatic Girl Who Got Pepper In Her Eye. Nobody rushed to help. They just watched me.  Like a zoo exhibit. And now, the North American Woman, whose natural habitat is not the kitchen. 

I didn’t vomit on the squid. I did, however, become the first person in that class to require an emergency eyewash. 

By the time the water, cold cloth, and eyedrops were done with me, I had achieved full validation. This — this — is why I don’t fucking cook. This isn’t relaxing.  This isn’t even fun.  I am never doing this again. FUCK ME, MY EYES ARE THROBBING. How does a single pepper generate this much pain?  I bet pepper-blinding used to be a thing.   

It’s genuinely impressive how many complete thoughts a person can have while sobbing into a dish towel. 

Round Four: Lunch and Then the Bathroom Again

The girl who enjoys cooking and I sat down to eat. I reassured myself that it was almost over—I could do anything for a couple of hours—tick-tock. A few bites of the first course. Fewer of the second. By the third course, the one with the squid circling up at me like an eye that had seen enough, I excused myself to the bathroom and freed the squid. 

Priceless, said the little commercial that plays in my head at inconvenient moments.   

I said my goodbyes, walked out into the street, and made a solemn vow to leave the whole ordeal behind me. 

My face had other plans.  I woke up the next morning with my eyes and the top part of my nose swollen.  They stayed that way for the rest of the trip. I didn’t even care anymore—I put on sunglasses and enjoyed watching strangers do a double-take every time I took them off. 

The Twist Ending, Because of Course

On my last morning, sitting with coffee in a cafe, a man walked in. Humble. Quiet-charm, doesn’t-know-

women-are-looking kind of handsome.  I was looking. 

That’s the cruelty of a painful, self-inflicted experience - the bill doesn’t come due until later. As I sat there admiring him over my coffee, it hit me: my eyes were still swollen.  This realization hurt worse than the actual pepper. 

So I did the only reasonable thing. I finished my coffee and left San Miguel de Allende with a completely fictional, deeply satisfying memory of the two of us: a passionate afternoon, him racing me to the airport with minutes to spare because he loved to cook and refused to let me leave hungry. 

It never happened. But it’s a better story than “swollen, sunglasses, silently traumatized by squid.”   

The Lesson, Since You Made It This Far

I ignored the version of myself who, walking to that class, already knew.  I’ve heard that whisper before — the one that shows up right before you do the thing anyway — and I overrode it because saying no felt ruder than suffering felt bad. That math never works out. It didn’t this time either. 

Here’s what I keep coming back to: the moment you already know something isn’t for you, and you go anyway out of politeness, guilt, or sheer commitment to a plan you made in a weaker moment — that’s not open-mindedness. That’s ignoring the one person in the room actually qualified to make the call.  You

I didn’t leave the kitchen with a new love of cooking.  I left with a swollen face, a ruined lunch, and confirmation of something I already knew about myself. Sometimes the lesson isn’t “try something new.” Sometimes the lesson is “you tried it, you were right the first time, do what your soul is telling you.” 

And sometimes the best souvenir isn’t a recipe.  It’s a story you get to tell - swear words fully intact - to everyone who’ll listen. 

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If you’ve ever said yes to something your gut already vetoed - send this to the friend who talked you into it.