And where, ever since, I have been trying to find perfection again.

Even though perfection seemed impossibly out of reach, I told myself it was pretty simple: just follow the recipe. How hard could it possibly be? Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, gather the ingredients, follow the steps.

But nothing about my kitchen was built for this recipe.

When I went looking for all-purpose flour, I found rice flour, potato starch, wheat flour, everything but the one thing I needed. I asked my mother where it was, and I watched her crawl into the depths of a cabinet I hadn’t known existed, tucked into a corner of the kitchen I’d never dared to cross. She emerged only after unloading thirteen bags of dry ingredients onto the counter, every label written in Korean. Finally, triumphantly she handed me a bag.

All-purpose jeon flour.

Flour for the savory pancakes she fried, meat and vegetables bound in batter. I furrowed my eyebrows. How was I supposed to use this?

“Is there something wrong? Why can’t you use this flour?” my mother asked.

I bit my tongue. I gave up and went to bed. Maybe the cookies would be perfect another day.

Another day came, so I went to the supermarket. At home I had only eggs, unsalted butter, salt, and granulated sugar, so I bought everything else: the flour, more butter, brown sugar, vanilla, and chocolate chips. My mother trailed behind me, holding up a three-pack of Chips Ahoy!.

“Why don’t you buy this instead? Isn’t it easier anyway? It probably tastes just as good.”

I interrupted her before she could finish. Homemade is better, I said. It’s different. It’s perfect. I reminded myself, again, that she just didn’t understand.

The butter was the next thing to defeat me. Every recipe insists the butter must soften to room-temperature—non-negotiable, because soft butter folds into the sugar smoothly and keeps you from biting down on gritty granules in an otherwise flawless cookie. But when I came home from school, I found that my mother had returned the butter to the fridge. I scoured the internet for how to soften it faster. Google gave me three options.

Option A: Microwave your butter.

I don’t have a microwave.

Option B: Use a double boiler.

Option C: Use your oven for approximately 2 minutes.

Both options B and C felt like more effort than they were worth, mine and the electricity’s both. I stood there wondering why we didn’t have a microwave, deciding it must matter somehow to Korean cooking, some logic I couldn’t see. Then I abandoned the whole idea again. Maybe the cookies would be better another day.

Then, finally, came the day that felt like the day—the one where everything would go exactly as it should. No interruptions. No substitutions. Just perfect. I rolled up my sleeves. I creamed the softened butter with the sugar until it turned light and airy. I cracked each egg into a small bowl first, checking for shells, then poured them in one by one. I sifted the dry ingredients and folded them slowly into the wet. I added the chocolate chips and watched the dough glisten before I covered it and set it in the fridge to chill. When it was ready, I weighed each portion—16.3 grams exactly, no more, no less—and spaced the balls precisely two inches apart. I baked them and watched through the oven door as they spread, edges going gold, centers puffing. When the timer dinged, I pulled the tray out and breathed in the warmth and the sweetness. I let them cool, just for a moment. Then I picked one up and took a bite.

It was, I think, perfect. And it changed nothing.

That is the part no recipe warns you about. The cookie did not recreate my first cookie. It didn’t summon the idyllic afternoon it belonged to, or carry me back to my best friend’s house, where cookies and milk were an ordinary after-school snack. It didn’t erase the memory of eating chapssal dduk, chewy rice cakes from the Korean grocery store, dense with beans and nuts, after school instead, wondering why it never felt the same. It didn’t smooth the way my mother stumbles through her English, her eyes darting to me to translate, while my best friend’s mom asked in perfect, effortless English whether I wanted more. It didn’t turn our home into that other home, the one that was perfectly, quintessentially, all-around American, the one that felt normal. Even a perfect cookie, I finally understood, would never be the cookie.

Before I could even swallow, my mother shuffled into the kitchen carrying a bag from the Korean grocery store. She smiled and asked if I wanted some chapssal dduk. I said no too quickly. I heard the sharpness in my own voice and the small pause it left in hers. I pursed my lips and stared at her leaning against the doorframe, and the kitchen went quiet, so quiet the humming oven seemed to stop. I bit my tongue, put my head down, and piled more cookies onto my plate. Save some for your brother, she said. I didn’t look up. I just nodded, and when I was sure she had gone, I got up for milk.

But before I left the kitchen, I paused. I opened the bag she had left on the counter, and I carefully placed a single chapssal dduk on my plate, right beside my cookies.