I was, in fact, going to blog about something entirely different today, but after a work Christmas party, I realized I had to say my piece about sauce.

It was a catered buffet, which I know a lot of people probably cringe at — after all, buffets are not created equally, and they do tend to encourage a particularly high amount of overindulgence (which, you know, doesn’t bother me much). Today’s was pretty magnificent, however; chicken, pot roast, mashed potatoes, two types of salad, dinner rolls, corn, and two types of cake. Two types of cake, people. When I finally made it to the line, I scanned the offerings and was pretty pleased — nothing was congealed or dry, and it all smelled awesome. But what really stuck out to me was the chicken swimming in sauce. In fact, the sauce to chicken ratio was probably about 10:1 and in my world, that’s perfectly accurate. In fact, after serving some up for myself, scooping ladle after ladle of sauce onto my chicken and potatoes, I realized upon eating it that I should have gotten more.

There have been multiple experiences in my life when I thought I was probably eating and/or enjoying a particular food because of the sauce alone. It’s probably a comfort thing; after all, biscuits and gravy make you feel about as happy as anything possibly could, and I could eat ganache on pretty much anything. I mean, if we really want to get into it and talk condiments, we’d probably be here all day. Fact: bagels are merely a vehicle to get cream cheese into my belly.

Things were divided at my table for lunch — some loved sauce, just like me, and some didn’t care for it at all. In fact, one of my friends was overwhelmed by the saucy chicken and almost didn’t get any. This I cannot fathom. If anything, I will opt out of a particular food because there’s just not enough sauce.

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