If there's one thing I'm not, it's a perfectionist. I prefer the term "perfectly imperfect," because at the most, it's an accurate statement, and, at the least, it sounds good.
This doesn't mean my family lives in squalor, but it does mean at any given moment you can't see my kitchen table, living room floor or truck dashboard. It means I also have one goal in mind when I go to do something: getting it done, period.
For example, I wash dishes at the speed of light, and you may find last night's potatoes on your plate; but there's always at least one clean plate to swap it out with. In fact, a lot of my imperfections seem to come full circle in the kitchen.
I used to think a good cook had to follow recipes to a "T," and therefore, I'd never be a good cook. Directions and I just don't gee and haw. It's not that I'm that much of a rebel (minus a couple of teenage years) but more because I'm impatient or lazy, maybe both.
Digging out measuring spoons ranks right up there with taking time to fill my truck up with gas--neither of which I'm inclined to do. When I cook, I just want to cook, and that's what I'm learning to do with an unlikely new best friend, my cast-iron skillet.
My husband introduced us. At first, I was timid to use it, but the more I did and the more I do, I've realized how versatile cast iron is and how forgiving it can be. Between beef, butter and my growing iron skillet family, cooking has become one of my favorite things to do. I don't always get it right, but more often than not, my family cleans their plates (which helps with my aversion to scrubbing them).
These days, every time I take my frying pan to the fire, I realize just how perfectly fine imperfect can be.
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