Thicken the sauce

One time, my university room mate confessed to me that my white sauce terrified her, along with my driving. I was hurt at the time, but I got over it and went onto have a life long friendship with the room mate, a good driving record and to crank out 2-8 creamy white sauces a month for macaroni and cheese from then on. She urged me to take the critique and not overlook the value of a good, creamy, thick (but not too thick) sauce.

For whatever reason, this argument has stuck with me.

During my recent downtime, denaturing on the beach and bulking up on strawberries and kebabs, the words "thicken the sauce" kept occurring to me.

As I roamed the beach for smooth beach glass, I would glance over at the clear surface of the low tide and see little shards of broken shells and schools of fish undulating. I would hear the words, thicken the sauce.

As I learned (to finally) make yeast raised buns for the first time, and marvelled at the elasticy substance in my hands, I would hear the words, thicken the sauce.

As I dove deep down into the waves and touched the sandy bottom, I would hear the words, thicken the sauce.

We have summer to thicken the sauce and winter to thin it. This year, that sauce better be thick.

Comments

I entered August without you.

I won't visit you this month. You won't call. I will raid your garden and you won't get any of the vegetables. I will make plans without telling you about them. We'll go to the store and not buy you one single thing. Whole books will be read and I will not tell you which ones. I will watch movies and not inform you. The nasturiums will ripen. Last month was different. I changed my schedule and took time off work to be with you. I dropped all kinds of plans for us to be together. You sent me messages, I received them. I picked up food that I thought you would like at the store and sent you pictures of every beautiful thing I saw. I sang with you. We watched the Great Canadian Baking Show. You chose the recipe for the garlic scape pesto and gave me instructions for making the gooseberry jam. I am in August without you. You are in July.

Keep telling yourself that.

We talk to ourselves everyday, all day (and night) for the whole of our lives. We started talking to ourselves before we knew we were a self, we forget what we said because we forget everything from before...when we were too young and busy developing our brain to remember those early years. There is still lingering residue of long forgotten conversations I have had with myself as a toddler sitting around in the crevices...sloughing off occasionally into words I tell myself still. We talk non-stop, and not just with dialogue. Our goosebumps communicate to us, our tingly feelings, our neurons, our peripheal vision. They are all submitting data into our self and expecting us to react, respond or all to often, expecting what they are sending us will be ignored. After all that talking, you'd think we'd know what we think about most things, but occasionally we are stumped. Unless we stop what we are doing and really concentrate sometimes that voice(s) ...

the words fell out

Despite being an introvert, I do often process big life events (and many many small ones) out loud by verbally hashing out my thoughts with whoever will put up with me. But this morning when I woke up to the big red blotch on the U.S. map...all my /the words fell out. They fell out unsaid, unformed. Got to work and probably , in another time, would have annoyed my co-workers, dominating the conversation with my verbal extrusions, but not today. I just mutely stared across at them and nodded. My dad came for lunch. Normally, we relish a good political diatribe, especially when we feel sure of our perspective, but this time, all I could do was munch on fries and marvel at all the unarticulated thoughts that I was not even bothering to retrieve. The silence inside me was noticeable. Social media was awash with reactions and I just looked away. I couldn't bear to read one word about it. I was not receptive to any reactions, accusations, reflections, words...

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