It’s one of those jobs I would do just before service. Almost ritualistic in its nature because I knew that if I was up to this item on my prep list, I was pretty much done. It was that time or very near it. No going back.
There was a certain knife, used for little else and perfect for the task. It would glide like....
But the manner in which I carried out this vital task was indicative of how my day was going.
Unwrapping each block carefully, avoiding making the edges too rounded with the heat from my fingers was important. It didn't matter, but it showed care and attention. The ideal, was neat, even sized little blocks which themselves resembled their mother. Clones. All the same and all with sharp corners. Almost measured. Still cold. Placed into iced water. Ready.
Frantically pulling off the paper which would be discarded on the chopping board. Adding to the mess. Butter fingers would be appropriate here. Literally. A sinking heart accompanied every cut, as there wouldn't be a right-angle in sight. Bastard children from a wounded mother. Each attack left a scar. Merely symptoms of the upcoming battle. Poorly armed and unprepared.
The same amount gets used. Employed in the same places and in the same way. The outcome is the same as it melts. It bastes and it flavours. It carries taste and helps it linger. But it’s not about that. It has nothing to do with the food. It has everything to do with preparation. Precision. Attention to detail and focus.
Chopping butter is a state of mind.....
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