Just Right

“The coffee was hotter and blacker than the sins of the devil himself. But it tasted just right, you might say.” Louis L’Amour

**********

Life demands verbal responses. The choices are many, from the crude to the superlative. Finding the appropriate middle ground is a challenge. ‘Just right’ might be the perfect choice for you. It was for Goldilocks in her choice of beds, you know.

‘Just right’ is one of those colloquialisms that just doesn’t beat around the bush but hits it head on. What else defines everything and yet nothing at all? It’s on par with the ‘It is what it is’ rebuttal to anything defying explanation. You can’t go wrong dropping this idiom.

‘Perfect’ is its high-brow first cousin. It walks a tight, narrow line while ‘just right’ is a wide-open DMZ between opposing choices. It provides a lot more wiggle room and doesn’t box us in. After all, what’s perfect in this life anyway?

Even Plato, now with us only as a marble-busted Greek, knew this. He got tired of his girlfriend complaining that his dish washing wasn’t perfect. So he came up with his Theory of Forms. Pure genius. It’s as viable an escape hatch today as it was then.

It’s a simple philosophy that nullifies even the possibility of perfection. It’s only in the ethereal world where perfect patterns exist. Not here. Everything on this planet is just an imperfect copy of those perfect patterns. Look in the mirror. The reflection you see will affirm all contrary delusions.

My friend George brought the concept of ‘just right’ down to earth. He said a fellow named Philo once worked for him. Philo liked his whiskey. After finishing a job, George gave him a pint for doing good work. Later, this is how the conversation went:

“Philo, how’d you like that whiskey I gave you?”

“Boss, it was just right.”

“Just right? What does that mean?”

“Well, boss, if it was any better you wouldn’t have given it to me. And if it was any worse, I wouldn’t have drunk it. So I guess it was just right.”

There you have it, no long, boring take-offs of the merits of whiskey, details nobody wants to hear. Just straight to the point.

Now, ‘just right’ is superior to some of its other lower-class, across-the-tracks relatives. Imagine Philo answering, like ‘not bad,’ or ‘pretty good.’ He could have said ‘OK,’ or ‘all right,’ or maybe even ‘fair’ or ‘outta sight.’ No, they’re cheap substitutes compared to ‘just right.’

True, ‘just right’ is a working-class idiom. It does not live in the same gated community as do some of its other more well-bred family members. You’ve met some of them, these formal and starchy adjectives and adverbs. They show up on engraved stationary and in country club conversations. Things like:

The holidays: marvelous
The symphony: stratospheric.
The trip: exhilarating.
The dinner party: smashing.
The wedding: lovely.

Huh? Such descriptive responses sound profoundly imposing but lack substance. They belong in British sitcoms. No, ‘just right’ is a utilitarian worker that shows up, gets the job done and leaves.

But back to Philo. What if he had attempted a more ‘perfect’ description to the question posed to him? How would it have come out? Maybe like this:

“Well, boss, that mash you so graciously bestowed upon me had extraordinary qualities. It had a subtle nose of smoky sensuousness, coupled with a distinct savor of an old Irish keg and yielded the unmistakable aroma of an aged raccoon. Its heavenly essence and dark luminescence reflected warmly the glowing orange coals of my fire.” Gag!

‘Just right’ did the trick, no superfluous discussion necessary.

Now, ‘perfect’ may have a purpose somewhere, though nothing comes readily to mind. It’s inherently flawed within itself, a pie in the sky dream. Moreover, it’s a hard taskmaster, a cruel tyrant. It demands more than can be achieved and dishes out harsh punishment to anyone attempting to placate its insatiable demands. It should be obliterated as an alternative for anything.

**********

So, let’s dispense with the notion of perfection and loosen up, take a breath and, like Philo, enjoy the fruit of our own labors.

O, the prison of perfection, and the freedom of ‘just right.’


Bud Hearn
December 13, 2019