SAUCE GiRL

I pick up a small piece of bread and plop the fresh goat cheese onto it, smoothing it across the soft face of the homemade focaccia. You can’t eat it like that. Drown it in olive oil first. In the middle of mountainous Crete, I realize a part of my identity isn’t really what it claims to be.

“I’m impressed, Leiden, you’re such an adventurous eater,” my dad applauds as I douse the goat cheese in olive oil. But I’m really not. I just douse things in sauce so I don’t have to face the foreign flavor.

My mom questions my brother, “Grant, why can’t you be more like your sister and try new foods?” It’s not trying new foods if all you can taste is the familiar flavor of a sauce.

As I generously pour the oil onto the food in front of me, I think about my nickname: the sauce girl. When first trying solid foods as a toddler, I demanded everything be dipped in ranch, whether it was a carrot or a piece of pizza. You can see where I got the nickname, and it has always come with certain implications. For instance, that I am bold enough to bother servers, as I am constantly asking for sauce, and usually asking again for more sauce. But more importantly, that I am adventurous.

Disappointed in myself, I knew I was receiving labels that weren’t really me. It felt wrong to be complimented with words like “mature” and “courageous” when I felt like a coward. And not only did this apply to eating habits, but to my perception of myself.

Covering the real thing in something more artificial was definitely less scary than accepting something for its authentic self, even if it was my own reflection in the mirror. Just as I was scared the food wasn’t good enough by itself, I didn’t believe I was good enough without being concealed in makeup or an Instagram filter. Similar to how I used pesto or tartar, I had been coating myself with colorful filters, creamy concealers, and mascaras.

Growing up watching people, especially females, change themselves for social media, I was conditioned with the idea that society will be more accepting of a perfected, edited version of me than my plain self. A specific recipe of exactly how to act as a girl is crafted into your brain before you’re even in middle school. Two cups of femininity, three tablespoons of politeness, a splash of personality, and a heaping spoonful of perfection. It makes about eighty years of worrying about what other people think.

Then I met Mr. Davisson while working at a retirement community. Every day, Mr Davisson would order twenty packs of cookies. After a few weeks, I couldn’t hold back my curiosity anymore. “Mr Davisson,” I asked, “why do you order twenty packs of cookies everyday?” He laughed and said, “Leiden, people are going to judge you no matter what you do in this world, so why not just do what makes you happy?”

Standing in front of Mr Davisson’s welcome mat at apartment 209, I decided that I was going to start deserving my label.

Quickly, after some time putting aside sauce, I realized under all the ketchup and Polynesian, the authentic food was delightful and offered more flavor than any sauce could. Why wasn’t the authentic flavor good enough for me in the past? The limiting of condiments led to the limiting of makeup and editing pictures as I strived to show my true self.

Ditching the rosy blushes and bronzing contour, I finally felt the validation of deserving my nickname. Whether with food, or myself, the ability to use just the right amount of sauce to enhance the natural flavor truly makes me “the sauce girl.”