The stand mixer’s gentle hum is the soundtrack to my thoughts. I carefully check and re-check each step, folding in the Pepto-Bismol-color cake mix with the oil while glancing up to see if my mom is watching. She’s not. I measure out the flour, lifting the measuring cup to my eyeline to make sure it’s perfectly aligned. I spray the cookie sheet over the sink as I’ve seen my mom do a thousand times before, perfectly imitating her technique. My ears burn when I hear a soft knock on our apartment door.

“John’s here!” I yell to my sister. “Can someone get the door?” My sister leaps up to let our brother in, embracing him with a big hug. 

“Smells delicious,” he says as he nods in my direction, smiling at the flour on my clothes. 

I reply with a small quiver in my faint voice. “We’ll see!”, as my eyes flicker to the oven, seeing the topping hopelessly melt. The flour-Jello mix bubbles from heat while embarrassment bubbles inside me. “Perfect,” I mutter sarcastically under my breath. I rack my brain with what could have gone wrong. I had made these cookies before, so what’s different now?

My intrusive thoughts are interrupted by John. “Those are my favorite cookies at Crumbl, I hope they live up to the expectations,” he winks playfully, casually dropping the “E” bomb on me. 

Expectations. Since I was young I’ve strived to live up to personal expectations. Like bumpers in a bowling alley, they keep me on track for strikes and spares, never gutter balls, rolling for a perfect 300. 

My mom has always said that baking is a science, it has to be exact. Perfect. So as I stared through the oven window, heat baking my face but not my cookies, I freak out. I was exact! I was perfect! It still didn’t work. 

The topping crumbles between my fingers, oil lathering my hands, testimony to my imperfection. I plaster a smile on my face to mask my failure. I am not perfect. As tears well up in my eyes, John silently walks to the cookie sheet which frames my masterpiece, plucks a piece and pops it in his mouth. 

“Mmm! Good job, Annabelle,” he praises me for the mess I’ve made. With all of the thoughts that had been overtaking me, I began to protest his misguided kindness, but I pause and quiet my thoughts. Instead, I aim to redeem myself and I frost the cookies perfectly then intuitively add the crumble on top. I stare at my creation, half upset, half happy. I had worked for two hours on the dessert, and this is all I had to show for it. Did it meet expectations? No. Was it perfect? No. 

I reluctantly picked up a finished cookie, handing it to my brother who sinks his teeth in and continues his conversation with my mom. I lift my own cookie up to my mouth, and the flavors overwhelm me. I’m startled because it’s not perfect, nor is it a complete failure. The frosting balances the cookie beautifully and although it didn’t happen the way I expected, they tasted acceptable. 

Since I was little, my motto is do it perfectly or don’t try at all. I have distinct memories of ripping up my coloring sheet when I went outside the lines, or sitting in my counselor’s office as she made me take a perfectionist screening test, in which I once again received a perfect score. While I know that shouldn’t make me proud, a piece of me was content when she told me I reached full marks. 

So as I chewed on my cookie that wasn’t what I had expected, I didn’t spit it out. They were somehow perfectly imperfect. A sense of relief washed over me, years of standards lifted off my shoulders, at least for this very moment. Even though I messed up and I wasn’t perfect, I didn’t throw them away. In fact I ate all three of the remaining three cookies, yet another perfect score.