Explaining How to Cook a Roux

[AIDEN stands by the stove with oil and flour. SEBASTIAN holds a wooden spoon like it’s Excalibur.]

AIDEN: Alright, Sebastian. Today, we make a roux. Flour and fat. That’s it. Cajun magic.

SEBASTIAN: So… soup? Gravy potion? Kitchen alchemy? Should I chant?

AIDEN: It’s not a potion. It’s a thickener. And you don’t chant. You stir. Constantly.

SEBASTIAN (leans in): Okay, stirring spell prepared.

AIDEN: No spells. Stove on. Medium heat.

SEBASTIAN (squints at knob): Medium… that’s like… not lazy, not ambitious?

AIDEN: Exactly. Goldilocks heat.

SEBASTIAN: Stove is emotionally balanced. Proceed.

AIDEN: Quarter cup of oil in.

SEBASTIAN (dramatic pour): Shall I drizzle, cascade, or chaotic splash?

AIDEN: Just pour. This isn’t a shampoo ad.

SEBASTIAN: Fine. Oil is in. I name him… Sir Slickington.

AIDEN: Great. Now add an equal amount of flour. One to one.

SEBASTIAN (holding flour): The pale dust of destiny. Do I consult its feelings first?

AIDEN: No therapy. Just scoop and dump.

[Sebastian dumps flour. The pan clumps.]

SEBASTIAN: It’s clumping! Should I call the Fire Department?

AIDEN: No. That’s normal. Stir until it smooths out.

SEBASTIAN (stirring): It looks like beige glue. Aggressively beige glue.

AIDEN: That’s stage one. Keep stirring. It’ll darken—blond, peanut butter, brown. Each shade, more flavor, less thickening power.

SEBASTIAN: So… like toast? But flat. And liquid. And resentful.

AIDEN: Exactly. Toast’s angsty cousin.

SEBASTIAN: What happens if it burns?

AIDEN: Then we cry, start over, and you’re banned from stirring.

SEBASTIAN: Can I add glitter?

AIDEN: No.

SEBASTIAN: Cinnamon?

AIDEN: Still no.

SEBASTIAN: But cookies—

AIDEN: Roux is savory. For gumbo, gravies, stews. Not dessert.

[Sebastian, ignoring, sneaks a spoonful. His mouth combusts.]

SEBASTIAN: Hot! HOT! It’s like molten betrayal!

AIDEN: Congratulations. You just ate lava made of flour.

SEBASTIAN (fanning his tongue): If I survive, I’m suing the entire state of Louisiana.