So Sous Me, Part 3

Original Photo taken by Henry M. Diaz

To describe her sauce, imagine this reader, taking a bag of rusty nails, broken glass, the leftover residue of fifty fifty year old toothpaste tubes and the grease of your local public transit if you have one. Put that into a blender that can liquify anything, including broken class, leftover toothpaste tubes, and a bag of rusty nails, and the grease found on local public transit.

It was the exact opposite of that. Except that it was liquid, it was not opposite that way. Basically it was the opposite of torture, which is pretty good I think.

Wait, that’s a really lazy literary convention, scratch that, unless it really worked for you, in which case you could probably skip this next paragraph.

For Taeryn, making a sauce wasn’t just cooking, which it was, but it was also a way of life. From the ketchup she lovingly made tomatoes she lovingly handpicked and hand grown and the onions lovingly hand cooked, literally in the palm of her hands with a greasing of olive oil, after a strong workout. And then Frank was able to swallow it all down off of a well muscled, lean, strong, sausage.

It went down like this. Frank was hungry one day, after working on the railroad system of Polesbumpkitkisstown, and the sweat was pouring down his perfectly formed pectorals and abdominals in figurative rivers, because literal rivers would dehydrate even a prime figure of man that was Frank Dieselwang. Nonetheless, he needed to eat, so he went to the local hole in the wall barbecue restaurant that most people hold up to be the best places to eat and in this case it actually bore out.

Bustling with the hum of a village worth of farmers, farm supply owners, and a village’s relevant amount of pharmaceutical salespeople who were the sons and daughters of said farmers and farm supply owners who happened to be in town to show their grudging love for their parents by coming in town for the railroad renovation/annual state fair which they grudgingly enjoyed to some degree and fondness for the kettle corn, which was a lot better than most pharmaceutical salespeople who never returned home ever because they were ingrates who didn’t care about their parents and maybe called home now and then, but probably not.

Here, at the hole in the wall, lovingly torn open by Taeryn Yewanewon’s late father, grill master Ripin Yewanewon, Taeryn was sweating aplenty as she bustled about, sweat rolling from forehead, down her neck, and then into her cleavage in the classic male gaze pan shot for the sake of the reader, but Frank simply found his seat and waited to be served, and if he looked at her he kept his eyes at approximately her eye level when he did happen to be looking in her direction.

Skipping all the charming details of waitstaff and such, Frank eventually found himself presented with a big person sized (formerly gendered as man sized prior to Taeryn’s managership due to her father’s well meaning but outmoded way of thought) sized portion of burnt ends, brisket, and a huge sausage to rival any he had ever seen before, all liberally coated with a glaze of Taeryn’s special sauce. 

Frank groaned with approval as she forced open his mouthhatch (figuratively and with his consent) and stuffed her enormous sausage into it. His eyes bulged with pleasure of the pleasurable feeling of the meat entering his mouth, as well as that indescribable taste of her enormous encased meat. A small cut made at the top of the sausage started to give way the more he tasted it, revealing an even more strong meat flavor.

It was the best sausage Frank had had in his life, and whenever someone asked him what his best sausage experience was from that day onward, it would be the one that Taeryn Yewanewon gave him.

To be continued.