RECIPE FOR
PERFECTION
Step One: Stand up and go
into the kitchen.
Step Two: Find the most
fragile thing. An object your
mom has clearly told you, “If
you break this…” Now, you
have the crystal platter with
smooth edges that remind
you of a freshly paved road.
A transparent rose blooming
on the plate, the stigma of the
rose being the center and its
leaves branching out creating
a pattern.
Step Three: All of a sudden,
your hand loosens its grip of
the platter and it drops to the
floor. Watch as the million glass
shards scatter on the floor like
spilled water.
Step Four: You quickly kneel,
knowing it’s your mom’s
favorite platter. You gather
all the pieces up and try to
restore them to their original
state, as perfect as they were
once before. You can use
tape, glue, or your chewed
up gum (options may vary).
But BEWARE: the shattered
glass leaves permanent
gashes on your fingertips.
Look at the broken fragments
of the platter that you salvage,
sharpened and blemished
with the stains of your own
blood. Run your fingers
through the cracks, feeling the
unevenness of what was once
a smooth platter; the jagged
ends remind you of the pieces
that never made it.
Step Five: In order to hide the
deed from your mom, you pile
an abundant amount of food
on the platter. It trembles in
fear of breaking as you pile
on more and more. As soon as
your mom walks in the door,
the platter gives up hope
and breaks apart again. You
look at your mom’s eyes and
instead of being full of anger,
they are full of empathy. She
can see the dried up blood
that once leaked down to
your wrist. She can see the
I
effort you made to fix the
platter to be as perfect as it
once was. “It’s just a plate,”
she whispers, embracing
you. That’s what makes life
beautiful, some may say
perfect.
TABLE FOR SIX
t wasn’t the mid ‘70s,
and my grandma was
not calling my Dad in
for dinner. My mom was
not flipping tortillas to feed
her uncles, aunts, cousins,
parents and siblings who
gathered around the table. It
is 2013, and it is not Mexico.
We are in New York, a place
where people order fast food,
rush to the nearest drivethrough or simply reheat
yesterday’s leftovers, eating
whenever they’re hungry.
But we are not like that.
We’re sitting down at the big
square dinner table patiently
waiting for my mom’s arrival.
My stomach growls, demanding
food. A human being can