The Broken Sauce

In the silence of the kitchen, before the first plate,

He stirs a memory more than a meal

A sauce, once simple, now sacred by name,

As tender and temperamental as how lovers feel.

A shallot weeps in the pan’s warm embrace,

Garlic whispers like secrets confessed,

Wine simmers slow with a lover’s grace,

And butter, oh butter, melts like a chest undressed.

He builds it slow, with hope in his hand,

A balance of salt, of time, of fire

Like letters once penned in shifting sand,

Chasing the moment, not desire.

But then, a tremble, a flicker too bold,

The fat slips free from the body it knew

A love once whole, now distant and cold,

Split at the seam like truth through and through.

He curses the gods, the whisk, the day,

Scrapes the pot like a heart too proud

What held so firm now floats away,

A silken dream turned broken cloud.

There’s no fixing some things, he knows it too well,

Some sauces and hearts don’t want to be saved.

Yet he stirs again, where the shadows dwell,

In the quiet where longing and hunger are braved.

So back to the flame with new butter, new breath,

He tries once more, through failure and ache

For every great chef must flirt with death,

And love again, though the sauce may break.