The Secret Sauce

The familiar heat and fumes of the kitchen steamed the perspiration onto the surface of Ginnie’s back, neck and forehead. She did a hasty wipe down of her face with the towel around her neck, and continued to stir the deep pot.

When it seemed about time, she opened the tub of sauce and scooped a good two ladles into the simmering mixture. The tub was almost empty. She continued to stir it in for a bit, then plonked the large lid onto the pot and brought the fire down to a small flame.

Taking off her apron and leaving the kitchen, she called out to Julia to mind the pot.

In the back office tucked behind the kitchen, Ginnie sat down in the seat and leant back. She closed her eyes to take a much needed break.

They were almost done with the sauce, the last batch that her mother made before her death. Ginnie felt a dull stab of grief, but pushed it aside. She’d have to go through her mother’s belongings to see if she’s left behind any recipes to the sauce. If not, difficult as it would be, she would just have to try to replicate it by taste.

She thought back to her mum’s insistence on not sharing the recipe for the special sauce, insisting instead on going into the restaurant each week to whip up a new batch. Ginnie didn’t mind, guessing that being the sole person with the ability to create their secret ingredient probably made her feel useful, wanted, and special. The secret sauce, as her mother called it, added a depth of flavour and complexity to the chilli they served. Many of their regular customers returned just to have their chillies, being unable to find anything on par outside of their small family restaurant. When her mother had passed last week from a heart attack, just a day after having made the last batch of sauce she would ever create, Ginnie had felt a strange numbness. She hadn’t known that her mother had been struggling with heart and cardiovascular issues for the past year or two, and the shock of her passing had seemed to wipe out any ability of hers to feel anything real, anything solid. She had been operating on autopilot since, going back to work at the restaurant, helping out with the funeral, and going about her daily activities. She kept waiting for the sorrow to fully descend upon her, but all she felt was a muted sense of pain, with the occasional twists on her insides. Even those were not of the intensity she expected.

She’d have to go through her things now, to see if her mother had somehow left behind a recipe, or any clues as to what was in the secret sauce.

She’d been postponing going through her mother’s belongings. There was a dread in her heart whenever she thought about it. It would mean revisiting old hurts, going through fond memories, and poking at the holes that had been in their relationship.

They hadn’t been close in a long time. Apart from her mother’s weekly visit to the restaurant to make the secret sauce, she hadn’t spent time with her one-on-one, for the past couple of years. Was that why she was so detached? Did she even care for her mother? She felt a pang of guilt, but squashed it with the usual justifications.

Her mother had never cared as much about Ginnie as she did

Ginnie’s brother. Ginnie had to put herself through college, while her brother received full support in his studies in the expensive private college he attended. She thought bitterly about the trying times she had in college, juggling both her studies and her night and weekend jobs. All because she had bothered to study and get good grades. Her brother had been unable to qualify for any of the local colleges, and had to be shipped off to study in a private college elsewhere, which accepted students of any calibre, as long as they were willing to pay the exorbitant fees.

She wondered what her mother would have done if she had failed her tests and exams too. She was firmly convinced her mother would have just pulled her out of school, let her start working immediately to help support her brother’s education.

Her resentment built up as she remembered all the unfair treatment she had faced. How her mother let her brother live with her, taking care of him long into his adulthood. How they spent every day together, yet her mum could not spare a single day a week to meet Ginnie for a meal. Ginnie had stopped asking, after a while. Their communication consisted mainly of text messages, on the rare occasion, phone calls, and her mother’s weekly visits to the family’s restaurant.

Ginnie’s mother also made it a point each Monday, when she would be busy concocting the secret sauce, with everyone ushered out of the kitchen for privacy, to talk about her beloved son.

“He’s got a job now,” she’d tell Ginnie, pleased as punch. “He’s still doing well with his girlfriend,” she’d share, looking proud, and eager for Ginnie to acknowledge his achievements. Ginnie always maintained a stony expression, responding with flat replies like, “Good for him.” Her mother found it so easy to see the good in her brother, the achievements. Meanwhile, whatever Ginnie did, it never seemed enough.

It’s no wonder she hadn’t felt the full force of grief that her brother was displaying. She avoided her brother’s calls, unwilling to listen to his sobs and reminiscence, her heart full with resentment.

But she’d have to text him later, let him know that she was headed to her mother’s place.

Later that night, Ginnie pulled up at the once familiar house. She exchanged perfunctory greetings with her brother, ignoring the tears that welled up in his eyes. Stiffly, she avoided his attempt at a hug and walked into the hallway.

When the door to her mother’s room swung open, Ginnie couldn’t help but feel a wave of sadness and nostalgia wash over her. She hadn’t been here in so long. The curtains were the same pink shade, with white petal shapes all over. The floorboards were as creaky as she remembered. The bedsheet was the same simple beige she knew. The shelf held the awards trophies that she and her brother had received over the years, though they were nothing prestigious. Most of them were the obligatory “prizes” that were given to them as kids. Prizes just for participation. Trophy for being the third team, out of the five participating teams. Her politeness award. His good improvement prize. Her certificate of 100% attendance, for one year in elementary school. She couldn’t help but smile at the collection.

There was a box on the bed.

“That’s marked out for you. Mum shared that if you needed anything from the restaurant in future, you would find it in the box.”

Ginnie felt the familiar sting of jealousy. He knew. Her mother must have shared with him that she was in ill health, told him about her preparations for the possible event of her passing. Yet again, not sharing anything with Ginnie.

“Thanks,” she said shortly, and after an uncomfortable silence, her brother closed the door.

Alone in the room, Ginnie sank onto the bed and opened the box, which was labelled: ‘Restaurant stuff’ with a black marker, in her mother’s cursive writing.

She looked around the room, wanting to postpone the reception of the last message her mother would ever give her. She spotted a thick book peeking out from underneath her mother’s bed.

She pulled it out and dusted it off before flipping it open. It was a photo album. Ginnie couldn’t help but smile at the first photo that leapt out at them. A picture of the whole family, when Ginnie and her brother were toddlers. Her father was in the picture too. He hadn’t yet disappeared from their lives then.

She looked through the album, feeling a warm and bittersweet sensation sweep through her heart. There were photographs of them, sometimes just of her, sometimes of her brother, sometimes both, and occasionally, those with her mother too. Her father disappeared from the album after the first page or two. There wasn’t any more recent photos, with the latest ones being from her teens. The use of digital cameras had undone the need for film photographs by then. As she kept flipping, she saw photographs of many strange, unfamiliar faces. Some of them had letters tucked in with them. She pulled out a letter, and read it.

“Dear Mrs S,

Thank you so much for helping our family. Here’s a photograph of little John, who’s growing up well thanks to your donations.”

The letter continued on, detailing how her mother’s donations had been used, the pencils and books that were bought.

She pulled out a few more letters. Some of them were from families whom she had helped through monthly donations, some were from people whom she had visited and helped out with chores and tasks. Ginnie was surprised. Her mother had always seemed to be struggling to make ends meet, when they were younger. From the letters there, it seemed like her mother had been donating to three different families, about 50 dollars each. It wasn’t much, but for a struggling single mother, it must have been a significant burden. Her mother had also spent many weekdays helping out two other families in need, offering childcare support, help with household tasks and errands. How her mother could have found the time in between her running of the restaurant, she couldn’t understand. Even if she spent only an hour or two each day, for let’s say twice a week to help out, it was still a heavy load to add onto her already busy work and family responsibilities. Ginnie couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of admiration for her mother. At the same time, she felt an unexpected surge of bitterness. Her mother had so much time and support to spare for everyone else. Everyone but her.

She shut the photo album with a thud, and put it aside. Turning to the box, she finally opened it, unsure what to expect. She saw that the box was empty, with nothing but an envelope within.

She tore open the sealed envelope, which held two pieces of paper within. Unfolding the first one, she saw the recipe for the secret sauce, written out neatly, no longer in cursive. Her mother must have known that she often found her cursive scribbling hard to decipher. She had what she needed. She folded the letter and put it in her purse. Then she opened the second piece of paper.

“Dear Ginnie,

If you’re reading this, I guess I’m gone. I’m so sorry to leave you and your brother. But I’ve led a happy life, a fulfilling one, and I’m contented to go. I’ve written the recipe for my secret sauce down, so that you can continue to make it, and whip up the delicious chillies that you’ve been making for the past years. Thank you for taking over the restaurant, it means a lot to me to know that my life’s proudest achievement, is safe in your capable hands.

I know things haven’t been good between us for a long time. I’m sorry for the part I played in it. I know that you’re unhappy about how I’ve treated you in the past, though you don’t say it aloud. We’re so alike, you and me, in our stubbornness and our inability to freely speak our minds. It’s only now, knowing the end might be near, that I’m even able to open up and write you this letter. I should have done so a long time ago, or said it to your face, but it’s difficult. We haven’t shared about our feelings or talked things through in the past, and that’s my failing. Please forgive me for not having reached out when I’m alive.

You’re the one person I can rely on in my life, the stable, dependable, smart, capable one. Someone I didn’t have to worry about. Thanks for making life easier for me, by being you. I’m sorry I didn’t show more love to you. I love you deeply, and I know I should have made that clearer.

I’ve put you aside for so long, to take care of your brother. He’s been such a joy in my life, but he’s also been difficult. You know about his emotional difficulties, and the trouble he’s been in. I know I give him more attention, but I really owe it to him and to society to make something of him. The past years have been especially difficult. He’s been in trouble with the police a couple times. He’s finally employed again, but it’s his 4^th job this year, and while I hope he would do well this time, I’m worried too. I know it’s a lot to ask, but it would be so important for me to know that you’d take care of him too, help him out once in a while. I know you’ve a lot on your plate already. But I just need to know that you’d check in on him once in a while, talk to him and encourage him when you have the time. His girlfriend, Tina, has been a great help to him, and since being with her, he’s become more stable, more grounded. But he still needs his sister.

I know you might be feeling sore that I’m asking this of you. My dear daughter, I really do keep asking too much of you. I see so much of myself in you. Perhaps that’s also why I’ve neglected you. I think of you as an independent, capable woman, and it’s easy to believe that you don’t need me, not the way your brother does. I hope you can look past my mistakes and forgive me, and look to your memories of our family with love. I love you, Ginnie.

With all my heart,

Mum.”

Ginnie sat silently for a long while, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.

When she had finally recomposed herself, she tucked the letter in her bag, and opened the door.

Walking out to the living room, she saw her brother crying silently on the couch.

She hesitated, then awkwardly placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, a mixture of surprise and gratitude crossing his face.

As the tears continued to stream down his face, she left the house.

She thought through everything she’d read in the letter as she lay in bed that night, and finally allowed herself to grieve.

The next morning, she typed out a text to her brother. ‘Wanna have dinner some time?’ The message stayed on her screen for a long while, then she deleted it without sending.

Perhaps in the next week or so, she’d send it.