Perfection surrounds me, mocking me, goading me, lying to me. I turn on my computer and perfect images of homes and kids and lives and food assault me. I look around my home and see the dishes in the sink, the clothes piled on the floor ready to be put into the wash, the shoes left next to their bins. This isn't perfect. In the past I've questioned my self worth. Am I good enough, I can't keep the floors swept. I clean the kitchen after dinner and by morning the sink is piled again with midnight snacks. Is there something I am doing wrong? I can't seem to keep my weight in check, my kids in check, myself in check. There is no perfection here. I forget things, write down game times wrong, put the appointment on the wrong day on the calendar.  I have visions of taking time to enjoy the fall with morning walks and taking perfect pictures only to realize a) I have other things scheduled for the morning or b) can't muster the energy to put on my shoes. There is no perfection there either. The carpet in house is stained a dingy brown due to kids and dogs, the wood floors are stripped down to bare wood in spots, there are holes in the laminate flooring from knives being dropped. Perfection, hardly. And then these apples came into the house; spotted brown and with worm holes and I loved them. They are like me. Imperfect and still amazing in their taste. I took them out of the box and marveled at the color, yellows and reds with dried green leaves attached. I placed them on the counter and saw how the light caressed them, highlighting the curves, showcasing the imperfect brown spots that are so becoming of the apples. Finally, I sliced them, cutting out the worms, boiled them and made them into apple sauce adding just the right amount of sweetness to enhance the little bit of the tart taste of the apple; and they taste just right.