It Doesn't Have To Be Perfect
by Sahana N., 15
A December 2024 Monthly Story Challenge Winner
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Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tiny gold hands within a diamond-encrusted Rolex played an ominous soundtrack in the kitchen. Filled with towering appliances, the massive room was a sight Tara had grown accustomed to, but today it felt foreign . . . intimidating.
She leaned closer to a stainless-steel mirror again, desperately wishing to change what she saw. Exquisite accessories, branded clothing, and sharp heels didn’t resemble a confident woman. Her brown eyes ignored the jewels worth thousands and the handloom materials adorning her. Instead, they were drawn only to a folded square of paper sticking out from a satin pocket: the very object that defined the chef standing before her.
With shaking hands, she pulled out the sheet. That worn paper, covered with scribbles of blue ink, was more than a recipe; it was a testament to the bittersweet journey that had led her to this moment. It had brought her to the top of New York City, just hours away from earning the title of ‘Master Chef Tara.’ Its precise measurements and meticulous instructions were everything she had worked for—the secret to her signature South Indian fish curry, chepala pulusu. But, only after thousands of rewrites and revisions had her passion materialized as the paper in her hands.
She could never forget her early years as a chef, nor the biting comments of culinary professionals who had tried her curry. Some had found the chepala pulusu too spicy, their faces flushing from the heat; others were overwhelmed by the pungent ginger-garlic aroma that assaulted their nostrils; and some recoiled at the tangy sourness of tamarind.
Each piece of criticism had felt like a dagger, chipping away at Tara’s confidence. Yet, she accepted their suggestions, fueling an untameable determination within her. She crossed out parts of her original recipe, replacing them with these critiques. She carved her process relentlessly, but always fell short. Years later, after every line in her original recipe had been crossed out, buried under words that weren’t her own, a spark of hope reignited.
“Perfect,” the British chef exclaimed, his face glowing with delight as he swallowed a spoonful of chepala pulusu. “It’s just perfect.”
Upon hearing those magical words, a wildfire of hope ignited in Tara. Unable to contain it, she decided to taste this perfect miracle herself. Fingers trembling, she dipped a silver spoon into the steaming curry. Anticipation coursed through her as she brought the spoon closer, the rich aroma enveloping her in a warm haze. The chepala pulusu melted in her mouth. It was perfectly balanced: every flavor in moderation, the spices subtle, the fish tender, and absolutely nothing like how it was supposed to taste. No traces of spice or tang tickled her palate; no waves of unrestrained flavor crashed onto her tongue. There was nothing. Just stillness.
As the tasteless sensation lingered, the buzzing room around her turned into deafening silence. After what felt like hours, she distantly heard her name called. As if underwater, she walked to the dais, deaf to the applause around her. With a plastered smile, she grasped the 1st place plaque, pretending to listen to the chef’s praises of her “authentically Indian fish curry.” For the first time, she heard these words from a professional of such stature—a moment she had awaited for years. Yet, standing blankly before dozens of elite chefs, Tara felt a suffocating pressure as the alien taste of her dish and the word “perfect” blurred into one.
Now, years later, Tara held the recipe to that manifestation of her success, a set of golden instructions that she could never part with. It had impressed nearly every top chef on the planet and turned her career into more than she had dreamed. But staring at it, the same heaviness that once suffocated her heart returned.
In this mechanical kitchen—where measurements were precise to the milligram, timers counted down to fractions of a second, and ingredients were scrutinized for imperfections—the joy of cooking had disappeared. Tara could only feel the leaden weight of success, a fragile success that could be shattered with even a grain of salt. As the paper in her hand grew heavier, a faded memory, long forgotten, resurfaced from the deepest corners of her mind.
Against the patter of tropical rain on a mud hut, the clanking bangles on her grandmother’s forearm played a steady rhythm. As Tara’s little hands poured spices with giddy thrill, the elderly woman rolled a pester in a stone mortar with surprising strength, breaking cardamom pods and turmeric cones with satisfying crunches. Through the earthy scent, the small kitchen grew fragrant with dozens of spices mixing in the air. Tara’s grandmother, Bharathi, lifted her to the coal stove as she poured in the ground mixture, measuring with her eyes as she had seen her grandmother do so many times.
Shattering the calm, the spices began to pop violently in the oil and crackle atop the meat. Piercing chili spice and frying onions began to assault Tara’s fragile senses immediately, her eyes burning and throat itching. Smiling at her unease, Bharathi blew slightly on the glowing coals underneath the pan to increase their heat. The spices grew tired slowly, and once again the lulling of gentle rain reached the chefs’ ears as mellowed flavors perfumed the room. Satisfied, Tara’s grandmother covered the fish with a banana leaf and lowered herself carefully to the dirt floor.
“Come closer, Tara,” Bharathi called softly, her pure Telugu ever so melodious to Tara’s ears.
Tara obeyed happily, resting her shoulder on the soft cotton blouse of her grandmother’s saree. The elderly woman stroked her grandchild’s hair tenderly, her soulful eyes content.
“Do you know how I learned to make chepala pulusu?” Bharathi asked.
“How?” Tara replied, though she knew.
“My grandmother taught me when I was your age Tara,” Bharathi’s strong voice started, filling the small room. “She told me not any fish would do for pulusu, only the best of the best could be used for this dish.”
“Up and down, one side and the other, my grandmother would inspect every inch of each fish that was sold at the Sunday market. Finally, she would bring the best ones home; fish with glimmering scales, plump bodies, and soft underbellies. With frail arms, the old woman would clean them until their gleaming skin shone and cut them into perfect pieces. And then, Tara, she would teach me, with patience that no else could have, how to make her famous curry.”
Tara perked up, never growing tired of hearing the intricate process that had been ingrained into her mind since before she could remember. Her grandmother continued, “Placing my fingers around the heavy stone pestle, my grandmother would wrap her arms around mine and grind the spices, chilis, and onions to bring out the best of their flavors. Eyes barely watering from the spice, she would scoop that ground paste into her bare hands and drop it into the simmering oil. Just like you, I would jump back at the spluttering explosion of spice and heat, but my grandmother never even flinched. Giving me the steel spatula, she would tell me how to stir the paste until it was cooked just right. Then, she would add the fish and cover it with a banana leaf, freshly cut from our backyard. While the fish simmered and my mouth watered at the thought of devouring the pulusu, my grandmother would pull me into her lap and tell me tales of kings and beasts and valiant princes. Finally, when a divine smell started to escape from underneath the tanned banana leaf, I would forget her story and run to the stove and pull off the leaf to see the product of our hard work.”
“Golden brown and oozing oil - the mere sight of the curry would cause my nerves to tingle with excitement.” Bharathi paused as she glanced amusedly at Tara whose innocent eyes were closed in deep imagination. “Though I wasn’t supposed to, I would take a spoon and sneak a small piece of fish into my mouth. Catching my naughty act every time, my grandmother would chide me behind a covered smile as I closed my eyes in bliss upon tasting the chepala pulusu. As soon as it touched my tongue, a wave of spice would engulf me. Then, after it traveled across my taste buds, the tang of tamarind and lemon would make me pucker. Slowly, the fresh leaves and dried spices would soothe the sharp flavors with an earthy calm. Finally, by the time I had swallowed, there would be a feeling of wholesomeness, Tara, one that I can not quite describe . . .”
Before Bharathi could finish her sentence, the divine aroma she had described started to fill the air. Immediately, Tara jumped up, interrupting her grandmother.
“It’s done grandma!” she exclaimed, leaning closer to the wood stove.
Chuckling, Bharathi stood up and reached over Tara to remove the damp leaf covering the fish, letting loose the rich aroma of spices and herbs. The vibrant colors of the curry, glimmering with oil, revealed themselves—glowing golds, browns, reds, and greens - intoxicatingly mouth watering. Unable to resist, Tara dipped her small finger into the steaming dish. Wincing at the heat, she licked the gravy clean and turned to her grandmother. Upon seeing the smile that stretched wide across Tara’s face, lighting up her eyes with elation, Bharathi let out a fond laugh and pulled Tara into an embrace.
Now, as Tara stood alone in the kitchen that had been graced by the most notable chefs and celebrities, she wished to feel that embrace once more. And to hear her grandmother’s words again, to feel the slight burn on her finger as she dipped it into a freshly made curry, to be wrapped in the familiar folds of a cotton saree. Those yearnings stirred within her a desire for that comforting wholesomeness, which even her wise grandmother could never put into words. She looked out the glass windows into the heart of New York City, nothing like the small hut that she had grown up in, tears staining her silk shirt as the weight of her recipe grew heavier in her hand. Unconsciously her fingers freed the paper from their grasp, sending years of toil and endurance fluttering to the ground. But Tara didn’t pick it up. She couldn't bring herself to.
Instead, taking a deep breath, she pulled another small square photograph from her pocket. It had been tucked behind the recipe, unseen until now. As she held her grandmother’s portrait to the light, the warmth of her kind smile seemed to fill the empty room. Wiping away her tears, Tara placed the photo in front of her and pulled on a new apron.
As she began to work, a pink sunrise broke through the night and illuminated the cursive stitching of ‘Master Chef Tara’ on her heart. The chef’s hands moved swiftly, chopping spices, vegetables, and meat as her grandmother’s techniques played through her mind. Soon, an aroma so familiar but so distant overpowered the sterile scent of the kitchen, and Tara tilted her head back, inhaling deeply. The flavors—spicy, tangy, salty, earthy, and everything else all at once—overwhelmed her soul. Unable to wait any longer, she put her finger, covered with gravy and slightly burned, into her mouth.
Tara knew it wasn’t perfect.
For the first time in years, she felt it didn’t have to be.