It was a flickering thought at first. With a fresh, steaming plate of pork and chive dumplings, I opened the cupboard above and reached up.
That fucking soy sauce, came the unbidden thought. I sweep it away. Don’t be silly, I lecture myself. Its a cupboard, its a condiment and it is a very ridiculous thing for an almost 31 year old woman to hate her soy sauce and think it is out to get her.
I knew why it was there. Two Saturday nights ago. Dinner on the run, same steaming plate of dumplings, this time freshly consumed. A quick clean up before I leave, already late, in full make-up and a really cute dress. I reach up to put back the sauce, it slips from my fingers, splatters EVERYWHERE in the kitchen, but most especially on my dress. I swear, I clean up the mess, I change pretty dresses even though that one was just perfect. All because of my asshole soy sauce.
Return to tonight. Don’t jinx yourself, I think, there is no soy sauce curse.
And as I think this, the soy sauce knocks against the bottle of Chinese black vinegar which falls into my bowl of dumpling dipping sauce which shatters and splashes, again, all over me. All over my kitchen.
My brain screams THAT FUCKING SOY SAUCE and I do two very solid childish stamps and yell
‘fuck fuck fuckety fuck’ and I realise this has to be the lamest tantrum of all time.
But still, the damage is done – I hate my fucking soy sauce.