béchamel sauce

Im standing over my stove, the kitchen quiet except for the gentle whisper of the simmering sauce. This isnt just any sauce its the golden, velvety heart of my cannoli, my secret weapon. I remember the first time I made it, the raw milk frothing like a shy child, the flour trembling in the spoon, the butter Id been saving for just this moment, its scent a promise. I stirred it, slow and patient, watching the roux bloom into a creamy, luminous embrace. Its more than a sauce its a memory, a comfort, a whispered promise of warmth. Its the canvas, the glue, the soul of whats to come. I can already taste the crunch of the pasta, the sigh of the cheese, the gentle surrender of the sauce as it slips into the dish. Its not just food its magic in a pot, a quiet revolution in a saucepan. Im not just cooking; Im crafting a story, one rich, buttery spoonful at a time.

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