These are not pretty eggs. As much as I love to cook, I cannot fry up a couple of eggs and have them look pretty. The technique escapes me. So, I sighed and pondered the plate and a light went on. Those eggs were going to taste fine. The yolks were just soft enough for dunking, the whites had a slight crispy part underneath. I didn't burn the toast. What was my problem? Russell always tells me it doesn't matter, they taste good, but I had this cook's mentality. Or maybe I have an "artist who cooks" mentality. The color has to be right, the proportions. I have been known to add more corn to a recipe because there wasn't enough yellow. When I bring home a bunch of veggies from the market I sometimes arrange them in the drawers to showcase all the colors. It pleases me. I am, of course, whacked.
So, anyway, it came to me that I was applying this perfection principle to all the wrong things. Food is about hunger, art is about fun. Where does perfect enter this? Nowhere. Granted, there are manymany places in my life that could use a touch of perfectionism. I will attempt to redirect there.
Because Russell will always like what I cook and never notice the color ratio. Someone will love that journal that didn't come out the way it looked in my head. I've made enough stuff in my life that was made more interesting by slapping a piece of something over a mistake.
I guess what I felt was freedom. Freedom to enjoy the broken yolks in my life, whether they be art or breakfast.
No comments:
Post a Comment