Perfecting Dinner

On perfectionism, pressure, and learning to let things burn

This fictional story explores perfectionism, comparison, and what happens when the image you try to maintain starts to crack.

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“Oh god.” I whispered under my breath, “Fuck”.

I rarely cursed. I never let those words pass my lips unless I truly meant them. I’d always told myself it wasn’t lady-like—that certain words marked a failure of refinement.

A lady didn’t curse. She was composed, gentle, and contained.

That belief lived in every fiber of me.

But fuck it—I meant it.

My heart began to race as my thoughts swarmed into a million directions. Pain flooded my mouth as the insatiable heat gripped me. My taste buds were rudely awakened—singed, even.

You remember being a child, peacefully asleep as you awaited Christmas morning. And then, without warning, your sibling barges into your room at the crack of dawn viciously ripping you from your rest.

I don’t remember the precision of the memory, but I can remember the feeling. You know…that fear that strikes you as you have mere seconds to remember where you are, who you are, and why your sibling is standing over you, shouting nonsense about Santa Claus arriving. Or maybe you were the rascal that breached my beauty sleep…

Well anyways, that is how it felt—the jambalaya’s fire. One moment was quiet, peaceful. The next? I’m being consumed by heat.

So much for my attempt at cooking.

I shoved the spoon back down onto the glass bowl sitting beside the stove, the metal hitting the glass with a sharpness that even I couldn’t ignore.

“Caroline?” My friend called from the other room. “Is everything alright in there? Did you mess up the dish?”

Her words were gentle enough, but there was something laced inside them. A note of expectation. As if she were already bracing for my failure.

“Let me help you,” she added. “I’m an expert at cooking.”

“I’m all good, Megan!” I rushed to the kitchen door, “Dinner will be ready soon. Don’t come over here—I want it to be a surprise,” was all I could muster as I clicked the door into its socket.

I rushed to the fridge, pulling out the one thing my mind could settle on: milk. Or shall I say oat milk, since the real thing did horrors for my digestive system.

I didn’t bother with a cup. I didn’t bother with etiquette, something I usually clung to. I twisted the cap and chugged straight from the carton.

I was no longer the refined woman I pretended to be. Something feral had taken over, and this plant milk was the only thing standing between me and complete collapse.

And it worked.

I turned back to the jambalaya, still ruminating on the stovetop. My brow furrowed. The heat had softened, but my horror only intensified. I stood there, oat milk dripping coldly down my chin, each drop splattering onto the tile like a quiet accusation—whispering that I had failed.

I pulled my phone up and scrolled back to the recipe I was following.

Three jalapeños, it read.

My eyes drifted to the cutting board, surveying the crime scene of green debris. Chopped-off stems. Hollowed caps. Thin, careless slices scattered like evidence.

One, two, three—I counted, nudging them aside.

Four. Five. Six.

My stomach sank as I stared at the remaining pieces. Somewhere in the midst of the chaos, I’d tossed in at least two extra jalapeños.

Sure it had been a while since I last cooked a good meal. But regardless, how could I make such a rookie mistake.

This wasn’t like me. I’m the girl who pays attention. The girl people look at and wonder how everything in her life appears so effortlessly put together. The one they assume has it all figured out.

Megan, my childhood best friend, was visiting me this weekend from Denver. I haven’t seen her in over a year, and I only wanted to make this trip special.

She was perfect—hair always blown out, nails manicured, articulate, a fantastic pianist, effortlessly rising as a fashion influencer.

And Megan wouldn’t have made this mistake. She would’ve had the dish perfected with ease and set on a perfectly curated tablescape.

I dropped my shoulders, forcing the tension out of my body. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. I learned such self-soothing tactics in yoga. Breathe in for eight, hold for eight. Breathe in for seven, hold for seven—and so on.

My mind was as clear as it was going to get. Now all that remained was figuring out whether this dish could be saved, or whether I’d already crossed the point of no return.

I began fishing out some of the jalapeños, dropping each on the cutting board. It created more of a mess but at least there was movement. I couldn’t let myself fall apart. I had to try to salvage this. I had to snap back into who I was—the woman that kept her composure.

I took another small spoonful, cautiously this time, and took a sip. Spice still overwhelmed the dish, but I couldn’t give up now.

So I pulled out my phone and searched in google: How to make my jambalaya less spicy.

Relief washed over me as the AI-generated suggestions populated the screen. I had options. I could dilute the dish with stock or water. Add lemons for acidity. Toss in cream, butter, or sugar. That last option was a hard no—Megan and I didn’t indulge in sugary or cream-heavy food. Sticking to a healthy routine was something we prided ourselves on.

I moved back to the fridge, heart racing, and pulled out what I needed: chicken stock and fresh lemons. Thank God I’d remembered to pick them up this morning. Without them, I’m not sure how I would’ve fixed this.

I poured in the stock, then squeezed the lemons one by one, tasting carefully between additions, watchful not to trade spice for bitterness.

I exhaled a breath of relief as the heat finally settled into something manageable. Any more lemon and the dish would tip into ruin. There was nothing else to do. The jambalaya wasn’t perfect—but then again, neither was I. I’d gathered that much the moment the dish scorched my taste buds raw.

I may look like I have my life together, but I’m not perfect. And I don’t think I want to be. Living under the weight of impossible balance and polished expectations had always tightened something in my chest. Maybe today, I could loosen my grip. Maybe not every moment needed to be filtered through perfection.

“Caroline!” she called again from the other room. “Is everything alright in there? Let me help you—I know it’s been a while since you’ve cooked a proper meal.”

“It’s all good,” I said this time, smiling as I looked down at my imperfect, almost-perfect dish. “Dinner’s ready. I’ll bring it out in just a second.”

Megan would have to accept the imperfection. And if she couldn’t, I’d set some bread on the table—to soften the heat, for both of us.