I remember the first time I cooked adobo for my husband. It was during that honeymoon stage where everything felt like a movie scene and I wanted to impress him with even the simplest things. You know, prepare food before he arrives from work, make the house smell like garlic and soy sauce, pretend I knew what I was doing. Oh, I still laugh at myself when those memories occasionally conquer my thoughts. I was trying so hard.

Anyway, me preparing food is not really the gist of my writing. LOL. I’m circling around it like some dramatic intro when really, I want to talk about what happened next. Because when he tasted that first ever adobo of mine, let’s just say he wasn’t impressed. Not even close. His reaction was more of a polite performance so I wouldn’t feel embarrassed. I can still picture him slowly chewing the adobo, chewing like he suddenly had all the time in the world.

I remember looking at his eyes, waiting, and that’s when I knew he was trying to think of a safe word. A word to describe the food without turning his sweet wife into wifezilla. He was nodding his head a little while chewing, still no answer. And of course, I was still watching him, too intensely probably, waiting for feedback like I was on some cooking show elimination round. The poor guy had already swallowed the adobo, and still, he was processing. Still searching for that one diplomatic, marriage saving adjective.

The thing is, I already knew I wasn’t good at the chemistry of cooking. The amount of this and sprinkle of that, the secret spices, the mysterious combinations that seasoned cooks seem to know naturally, I didn’t have those instincts yet. My biggest concern back then was honestly just, does the color look like adobo? If it’s brown enough, maybe it passes. Crazy silly logic, I know. But I tried my best.

And after what felt like the longest pause in husband and wife communication history, he finally made a gesture. A so so hand sign, moving his palm left and right as if balancing an invisible scale. It wasn’t a compliment, but hey, it also wasn’t a rejection. It was neutral. And sometimes neutral is kinder than the brutal truth.

Six months later, I cooked adobo again. This time, not to impress him, but to challenge myself. I added some seasonings I hadn’t used before. I played around with the sweetness, added Coke, adjusted the soy sauce, threw in some magic ingredients I probably wouldn’t have considered back then. It felt like a small science experiment, but in a fun way. A controlled chaos kind of way.

When he tasted it this time, his reply was better. He actually savored it. Not in the dramatic oh my God this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted kind of way, but in a genuine okay, there’s improvement here tone. He even commented about the balance of sweetness and a little punch to it. Yes, the man loves spicy food, so the punch mattered.

That moment meant something to me. Not because the adobo was suddenly award winning, but because I finally felt the shift, from cooking to impress, to cooking to improve. From worrying about perfection, to actually enjoying the process.

I’m not saying my adobo is perfect now. Far from it. But going from zero to something, that’s a great feeling. There’s a kind of quiet pride that comes with knowing you didn’t stay at the starting point. You tried again. You experimented. You learned. You got better.

I think that’s the heart of it all. Cooking adobo started as a cute newlywed attempt to impress my husband. Now it has become this simple reminder that progress, slow, awkward, slightly embarrassing progress, is still progress. And sometimes, that’s more satisfying than getting it right the first time.

Besides, if my adobo journey taught me anything, it’s that improvement tastes a whole lot better than perfection anyway. And really, who knew my biggest glow up wouldn’t be a makeover, but a pot of adobo quietly leveling up in my kitchen?