Culinary wizard

⏱ ~7 min reading

On the very edge of the village, near an old apple orchard, lived a wizard. His name was Sauce - and it was really a name, not a nickname. His mother, the witch, also called him that, because when Sauce was born, the house smelled sweetly of something vanilla and warm, and his mother smiled and said: "Well, my son, you will definitely be a cook.".

And so it happened.

Sauce wasn't a scary wizard. He didn't wear a black cloak, he didn't brew potions from frog legs. He wore a white apron that he washed and ironed himself, he had a neatly trimmed gray beard and warm, warm eyes - like forest honey in the sun.

His hut was small, wooden, with blue windows. Moss grew on the roof. On the porch stood pots of mint, lemon balm, and parsley. And inside was a large kitchen with a wide stove, copper pots that shone like mirrors, and shelves with jars. In each jar was something special: sunny salt from the distant sea, honey from wild bees, rose petals, cinnamon from beyond the mountains.

The sauce cooked magical dishes.

His soup cured sadness. Not immediately - slowly. You drank a plate - and somewhere in your chest a knot unties. You drank a second - and you start looking out the window. You drank a third - and you notice that a bird is singing.

His pie cured fear. A piece and you are no longer afraid of a dark room. Another piece and you are no longer afraid of tomorrow. A third and you forget what you were afraid of.

People came to Sous from all over. Some with a cold. Some with a broken heart. Some simply tired. And everyone left his house differently—warmer. Sous never took money from anyone. «Bring me a pear from your garden—it’ll be fine,» he would say. “If you don’t bring one—that’s fine too.”.

One autumn day, when the garden was turning yellow and the smell of wet bark was lingering, a grandmother was walking slowly along the path to the Sauce House. Small, in a gray scarf, with a basket in her hand. She was walking slowly, stopping, looking at the ground. Her shoulders were slumped, as if an invisible sack was lying on them.

Sauce met her on the porch. He already knew—he always sensed when someone came to him with a heavy heart.

"Come in, Grandma," he said quietly. "Tea is waiting.".

Grandma looked at him in surprise.

"Aren't you asking me why I came?"

"I'll ask later. First, tea.".

She nodded and went in. The kitchen was warm and quiet. A copper kettle was bubbling on the stove. Sauce sat Grandma down on a wooden bench covered with an embroidered cushion, and he stood by the stove.

Only then, slowly taking off her scarf, did the grandmother begin to tell the story. Not right away. At first, she was silent for a long time.

"I'm the only one left," she finally said. "My husband has been gone for two years. The children have moved—some to the city, some abroad. They ring, of course. But the ringing is not the same as the sound of a living soul nearby. The house is quiet. I look out the window and think: why do I still get up in the morning?

The sauce didn't respond. He slowly took the jars off the shelf.

First he took out a jug of water—and it wasn't ordinary water, but water from a solar well that stood behind the garden. The well was special—the morning sun shone into it every day, and the water was saturated with light. When Sauce poured it into the kettle, the water made a soft murmur, as if it were thinking about something.

Then he plucked three mint leaves from the pot on the windowsill. Fresh, from the morning dew. He crushed them in his palm - and the kitchen immediately smelled of a green meadow and spring.

He opened a glass jar of honey—dark, wild, from forest bees. The smell of the honey was thick and complex—it smelled of buckwheat fields, linden blossoms, and the warm sun.

And from a transparent bag he took out dry rose petals — pink, thin as the skin of a child's cheek.

He slowly put all this into a clay teapot. He filled it with hot water. He covered it. And he waited — as a father waits for a baby to rock.

Grandma sat and watched. She didn't know what to say. The sauce didn't rush her.

Meanwhile, he took a pie - a small one, with a taste that is difficult to describe in words. The sauce itself gave it a name - "with the taste of hugs." Because when you taste it, it feels like someone is gently hugging you by the shoulders.

Ten minutes later the kettle was ready. He poured a full cup of sauce for Grandma. He put the pie on a plate. And sat down opposite.

— Drink, grandma.

Grandma took the cup with both hands. Her palms were thin, with prominent veins. The cup warmed them immediately. She took a small sip.

The tea was warm. Soft. The taste of the entire garden, all the leaves, all the mornings, was in it. Grandma drank it silently. Tears streamed down her cheeks—but not from sadness. From something else. From the warmth that penetrates the cold.

Sauce didn't ask why she was crying. He just handed her the pie.

Grandma tasted. Chewed slowly. Something very familiar spread into her mouth—like the smell of children's hands climbing onto her lap. Like the touch of a man's hand on her shoulder. Like her mother's voice behind the wall.

Another hour passed. Grandma drank her cup. She poured the sauce into another. In the kitchen, all that could be heard was the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall—tick-tock, tick-tock.

And then — slowly — a smile appeared on Grandma's face. A small, embarrassed one. The first in a year.

“How do you do it?” she asked quietly.

Sauce smiled into his beard.

"I don't do anything, Grandma. I just put all my care into the dish. And you take it with your heart. Magic is love transformed into action. Nothing more.".

"Just love?"

— Just love. But not «just» — completely. In every mint leaf. In every drop of water. In every turn of the spoon. Then the dish becomes magical.

Grandma thought for a moment. Then she nodded.

When she walked home, the day was still the same autumn day—the same yellow leaves, the same coolness. But her shoulders were higher. The basket in her hand swung more easily. The tea was still warm in her chest.

At home, she didn't sit on the old chair as usual. Instead, she went to the kitchen. She opened a drawer. She found her old teapot—the one she used to pour tea for her husband in the evening. She washed it. She put water on. And she thought—and she had mint on the windowsill. And honey from a neighbor. And dry rose petals from the summer—in a box.

She made tea.

First for myself — and it was delicious. Then, the next week, a neighbor came — Grandma poured her some too. The neighbor drank it and said:

"What did you put in there?" It felt like it warmed my soul.

Grandma smiled.

"Love. Just love.".

From that time on, there was always a kettle on the stove in Grandma's little house. The grandchildren would come running from the city for the holidays and drink. The neighbor would come in and drink. The postman would come in and drink too. And everyone would come out a little warmer.

And Sauce continued to cook his dishes in his garden. He knew: magic goes on in the world. Not his - human. Because food becomes magical when care is put into it. And this skill is available to everyone.

You just need to remember how to love. And start.