I poured the maple syrup as if mine were the last bottle in existence. When I handed the syrup to Andrew I watched in shock as he emptied almost the entire container onto his plate. I said nothing. I chewed and watched and chewed and watched and finally sighed in disbelief when most of his syrup went down the drain. After that, the only syrup in our fridge has come from about three shelves down and to the left.
The term socialist saucing didn’t come to me while watching my boyfriend squander syrup, but during a weekend of dinners consisting almost entirely of frozen food.
That Sunday evening frozen lasagna rolls were on the menu. As I read the directions, which I always do in the case of frozen food, I realized that the partial jar of pasta sauce we had would not encompass the needs outlined on the back of the package. I broke into a mental sweat. What would I do without the correct amount of sauce?
I considered my alternatives: Leave my comfortable – if somewhat cold, damp and drafty – apartment and venture to the corner store for more sauce or risk any ensuing lack of success using the partial jar. I opted for my comfortable discomfort.
I poured the sauce carefully; making sure each lasagna roll was covered adequately with marinara. When I finished, I looked at soon-to-be-dinner with sense of finality: What will be, will be.
Later, when the buzzer went off, I held my breath as I opened the oven and lifted a corner of tinfoil to peek at the lasagna rolls. Perfect.
‘I am helpless,’ I thought to myself, realizing that I had become my mother’s daughter in a way I hadn’t even fathomed as possible, following in her footsteps as a socialist saucer.
Especially when it comes to maple syrup.
