Perfection is Something

Perfection is Something

It’s easy enough to imagine; much more difficult to come by. My elementary, junior high, and high school years were plagued by an exhausting strain of perfectionism. The one day I ever played hooky, I had the proper parental permission slip in hand. Thinking back on tears shed—over the “C” I got in singing in kindergarten [if you’ve ever wondered why I refuse to sing in front of you], over getting OUT! in an identity-shaping game of four-square, over losing the spelling bee, over botching a quartet performance on the bassoon, and later, over parabolas and nameless varieties of equations predetermined by me to be impossible, and stupid—I can’t imagine that many of those tears were worth the emotional energy they cost me. And all for what? Just so many salty droplets dribbling their way through the pages of an imperfect autobiography.

Okay okay. Before this turns into too much of a sob story…

Somewhere around University Junction, I decided to embrace imperfection. It was hard to stomach until I realized that it’s such an easy excuse: Why didn’t I finish the homework? I’m not perfect! Why are you late? __________! Did you remember that thing…? No, sorry, ___________! Why weren’t you at the mandatory meeting? Oh, pucha, sorry! __________, you know! And that’s when I started playing hooky without a parent’s note. It was exhilarating.

At first. And then things got a bit out of control, etc etc and here I am in Chile, seeking Latin American perfection—eso lo que no existe en Chile, pero estoy aprendiendo aceptarlo. I’m realizing that, considering my own faults and shortcomings, I have no authority to demand that Chile be perfect. And so, when it rains and streets flood, and when the metro closes early on weekends, and when the food is bland, and when no Chilean can resist a strike, I understand. Perfection is hard to come by.

But, here it is folks. Listen up. I found it, tonight. And it started with just a bit of water in a pan, on an electric burner that still wreaks of burning milk from another bit of imperfect judgement I had a couple days ago. Add a couple good shakes of miscellaneous black tea leaves, cinnamon stick bits, cumin—hand crushed, cloves—also hand crushed (not recommended), some pepper, some anise, a bay leaf, a small dose of tandoori masala, a bit of sugar for good measure, and a couple splashes of milk from the box (still a questionable milk-storage method). A few minutes to simmer. And voilà! I didn’t realize it was perfect until the flawless transfer from pan to French-press, from press to pour, from ‘looks about right’ to JUST enough for one brimming cup, from cup to mouth to stomach. Incredible. No more tears, because now I know perfection is something you drink.