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How to Be Perfect: An Illustrated Guide

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Ron Padgett
Ron Padgett

Ron Padgett is an American poet born on June 17, 1942. His work is known for its concise language and profound emotional depth, having a significant impact on contemporary poetry. more

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“I can hear your heartrate, you know. You can keep your face perfectly still, but can’t stop your heart pounding along like that - and I know it’s not from fear. I'd be able to smell it. It’s anger. Exactly the same as the last time we met. I asked the others afterwards, and none of them picked up on it. All they got was a constant sense of disdain, like you barely thought they were worth looking at. Actually, you didn’t look at them. You couldn’t take your eyes off me.”

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“I make a great fried egg sandwich. Want to try it?" Chloe stared at her with an encouraging smile until Josey finally laughed and nodded. "Okay." "Great!" Chloe put on a pair of disposable gloves, then she took butter and two eggs from the under-the-counter fridge. "Go ahead and take a business card. You can call me here if you want. And the bottom number is my cell." She plopped a pat of butter onto the grill. When the butter melted, she cracked the eggs into it, close enough for their whites to merge. While they sizzled, she buttered two slices of sourdough bread and put them on the grill. "I didn't know this place was called Red's," Josey said, reading the card. Chloe smiled when she thought of her great-grandfather. "Another family tradition. My great-grandfather had red hair. So did my mother." Chloe sprinkled the eggs with salt and pepper and a pinch of dill, then turned them over with her spatula. She flipped the quickly toasting bread too. She'd spent her childhood watching her great-grandfather do this, and here at the shop was the only time she felt him near anymore. "Do you want this for here or to go?" "To go." Chloe sprinkled a little more salt and pepper on the eggs, made sure the yolks had firmed ever so slightly, then topped them with cheese. She let the cheese melt before scooping the eggs up and putting them on the buttered sourdough.”

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“As she spread mayonnaise on the slices of bread and slid them into the sizzling rosemary butter, something tight eased up a little in Feyi's chest. She was alone, just with herself, remembering the creeping peace of putting something together on a flame, the sounds of bread turning gold, the rhythm of grating Gruyere cheese and layering it, then watching it soften and melt.”

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“Gina finished up the sandwiches, handed them off to people who'd been waiting, and immediately started three of her Classic grilled cheeses, a combination of Colby-Jack, American, and provolone on fresh Italian bread with a lot of butter, crisp and golden. She'd learned long ago to grill both slices of bread for each sandwich at the same time, topping them with shredded cheese, and bringing them together at the end to complete it. It took half the time and was just as delicious.”

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“Luke paused before asking hopefully, "Did you say something about sandwiches?" Merritt smiled. "I'll bring a tray to the front parlor." She went to the kitchen, fetched various items from the larder and pantry, and set the teakettle to boil. Although most ladies of her position rarely, if ever, set foot in the kitchen, Merritt had fallen into the habit of making small meals for herself on Cook's days off. It was faster and more convenient than waiting for things to be brought to her, and there was something soothing about puttering in her own kitchen. She made sandwiches with brown bread, ham, and mustard, and added hard-boiled eggs and pickles on the side.”

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