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.
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.
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