In every industry, there is a time when people talk about their jobs. It's inevitable, bragging and boasting about how much they know, who they know through corporate ladder climbing blow jobs, and what they have experienced in basement drug driven activities. It seems this will never end, a wormhole of unfortunate realizations that you're surrounded by pompous dickheads who won't shutup. Once you have come to this conclusion, just sit back and listen. Nod your head. Gag a little. Take notes. But focus on the one thing that matters in the world: Butter. 

I half-heartedly listen to all this ruckus when cooking, trying to focus on the task at hand. One of the more mind numbing tasks is making roux. It is a catalyst for thickening sauces, made up of butter and flour. The end result is a mushy substance of baby diarhea, smelling the opposite of poopy-ness. If you don't think butter smells incredible, then you have problems. It takes you into a world of aroma novelty, one of the first aromas one smells in a kitchen when someone starts to cook. It gets the body going with a charge of a horny 15 year old boy, raising body parts from the dead and stiffening at a firm stance. It is a social giant, complementing over 3/4 of recipes out there in the world and adding it's wonderful charisma to your dish. It can get you paid, laid, and a good grade. 

I melted the butter in the pan to start the roux, stirring ever so softly as it liquified into a pool of happiness. I thought about what it would be like to swim in a pool of butter, being able to have a basket of bread floating in the deep and dipping the bread into the pool for some mid-swim snacking. But don't eat too much bread while in the butter. You may develop a cramp and start to feel pains in your rib cage area. Like a gunshot to the dome, the pain will be ruthless. The butter will turn on you and become your enemy when it claimed to be your friend at first. You will hear faint laughter from your innards, a thriller sort of laugh that the butter may refer to as "The Filler Laugh." You will then ask, "What does that mean, butter? That doesn't make any sense."

The butter will reply, "It means I am filling you with myself....

...that wasn't too well thought out, was it?"

You will not agree with him, fearing that he may turn from sad realization to harsh reality. Stay quiet. Take notes. If you can. 

Once the butter was melted, I added the flour. It became a mess right away. It seemed to me like it was a supermodel, adding too much make-up and ruining what once was a beautiful thing. Appearance is important in cooking, but only with the end result. I decided to take that into consideration, stick my nose close to the roux as it was cooking so it could take me away from all the banter and fatuity that was going on around me. 

"I LOVE watching TV...ESPECIALLY FOOD NETWORK."

"I once did it that way. Pop and go. Pop and go. Pop and go. Pop and go."

What were they all talking about? Doesn't matter. Focus. 

The roux was coming along, becoming the beginning stages of baby bowel movements and sizzling like fresh manure from a horse's ass. Why all the comparisons to shit if it's so delicious, you ask? Well, my friend, it's just how I see things. I know that this is an agent, agent zero if you will. It simply gets the high priest where it needs to be and dissipates into the shadows of other starting agents. Along with them are oil, pan spray, and margarine. They have a secret society to be loyal to their masters, which happen to be the rest of the ingredients in your dish. But the butter is always the tricky one. It wants to overthrow the dish. Become the master, the high stick in charge. Sometimes it does, and butter happens to overpower a dish in magical ways. The problem lies therein the butter's true goal: to take over the culinary world. 

The roux was finished, stirring it occasionally so it wouldn't stick. 

Remember: Butter. That's all you need in life.