The Perfection of Baking Without a Recipe 

 

 

I’ll never forget the piercing sound of the smoke alarm. I was in the kitchen with Momo, my grandmother. I knew immediately what had happened. I could hear the voice inside my head saying, “You forgot to set the timer. You burned the cobbler. It’s your fault.” I ran to turn off the oven and Momo hopped up on a stool and waved a kitchen towel below the alarm. 

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Earlier that day, Momo and I drove to an orchard and hand-picked peaches to make the cobbler. We’d spent 45 minutes accurately measuring the ingredients. The process was meticulous, and yet, my favorite activity as a child. Momo taught me every detail, like how to fold the butter into the flour just enough to make a flaky crust. Baking a perfect cobbler took time, patience, and exactness. When I burned the cobbler, I was flustered and embarrassed, but Momo wasn’t mad or disappointed. She knew that it was more important to learn from our mistakes than to wallow in them. 

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Soon after, I started dancing. I didn’t like the idea of studying ballet at first. I thought it would be boring. My chorus teacher said I had a natural talent though, and that it would be a shame if I didn’t at least give dance a try. Shortly after my first lesson, I fell in love and ultimately became obsessed with ballet. What started as a hobby turned into five hours of practice every day, six days a week. 

 

 

Ballet brought out the perfectionist in me. A ballerina must be driven to study and imitate movements perfectly. The rigidity and rigor of the form and the intensity of the practice schedule meant I didn’t have much time to think about anything else. My teachers appreciated my dedication and commitment. I felt that ballet was the one thing in my life that I had control over. If I wasn’t performing the best I could, I was disappointed in myself. I loved to dance, but I wasn't happy, and I didn’t know why. 

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Fortunately, Momo recognized that ballet had turned into an unhealthy fixation in my life. The next time we made a cobbler together, Momo set out the peaches, took out the oats, the flour, and the sugar. She told me to make the cobbler and when I asked for the recipe, she told me that I didn’t need it. 

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I didn’t know what to do. I was taught to always be precise, both when baking with Momo and when dancing ballet. Momo explained that I was taking things too seriously. At a time in my life when baking and ballet should be joyful, I was too focused on making everything perfect. She was right. 

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It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve learned to let go. I now see dancing as a way of expressing myself. Baking and ballet taught me to balance precision and exactness in my activities with freedom in my head and my heart. I can now bring this relaxed way of being into new passions like slacklining, painting, hiking, and my studies. 

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Today, the voice inside my head is telling me not obsess over any one aspect of my life. Through my own growth, my experience dancing, and life lessons I learned from Momo, I have become a freer and happier person. Momo is no longer with us. She battled cancer for three years until she lost her life. I still make peach cobbler without a recipe. And I know that perfection isn’t the goal.