Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

I don’t know about you, but there is nothing I have done for which I proudly exclaim Perfect. There’s always a qualification or a hesitation that something could have been improved upon or someone did something even better. (Can perfect be perfected?) No, perfect just isn’t a word in my lexicon, but I wish it were. I wish I could unhesitantly proclaim that a lesson I gave was perfect; that an essay I wrote was perfect; that a discussion I had with a child was perfect; that a day I had was perfect; or even that a night’s sleep was perfect. I aspire to perfection, but it seems as unattainable as fathoming why bad things happen to good people.

Which brings me to why I watch cooking shows. Did you ever notice that everything they make is perfect? There are no qualifiers: if I had added some more oregano it would have been perfect; if I had bought a different cut of meat it would have been perfect; if I would have cooked it longer it would have been perfect. Nope. What they have in the pot, on the plate, or in their mouth is it—it is perfect! And that is why I watch cooking shows. I want to see people proclaim perfect perfect perfect without flinching, without feeling self-conscious, without looking like they’re lying. I want to learn—not how to cook (well, maybe a little)—but how to have unbridled confidence in myself and my abilities. I want to stoke flames within that will bring out the part of me that would stand on a stage and proclaim “what I have done is perfect.” I want to have a part of the perfection of the world that can be created through experience and talent and confidence.

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