"Spinach dip again, Phoebe?" Gary asked, lifting the lid.

"Ow! The audacity!" Phoebe cried. She grabbed the stick of butter, unwrapped it with her teeth, and tossed the whole thing into the pot as a peace offering.

The fumes hit her like a physical wall. Phoebe coughed, a deep, chest-rattling cough that sent her stumbling backward. In her flailing, she knocked the jar of "Emergency Cajun Spice Blend" off the counter. The lid popped off. The entire contents cascaded into the pot.

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Gary recoiled. "What on earth is that? It looks like... molten lava."

She didn’t mean saucy in the attitude sense—though she did once tell a barista that his foam art was "adequate." She meant saucy in the culinary sense. She wanted to be the kind of woman who could whisk a reduction into submission, who could emulsify with a flick of the wrist. She wanted to be the kind of person who didn't just cook food, but who sauced it.