The ride home is over. My body is showered, my hair wrapped and toweled dry with the tenderest of care. The music wafts in pleasing tones across the kitchen air from my living room speakers, melodious notes bringing life to this abode that has been empty for the last eight hours. All that remains is to nourish the body (Screw the soul. What did it ever do for me?).

The blast of cool air from the cracked refrigerator is welcome to say the least, considering the 105º temperatures outside in Phoenix, Arizona. A wave of goosebumps, transitory and ethereal, cross my flesh before vanishing until they're needed next. Bathed in the cold light ensconced in the large appliance, I commence my search for food.

It was there that I came across you again, brown bottle lying prone, colors bright and cheerful as ever. All natural, you claim. How noble, how very touching. Even after all this time, you're looking out for me. The job of a steak sauce is never done, it seems. Especially when you consider the length of time you've been lazing back there.

How long has it been? Six months? Eight? This is your second home, the second fridge you've made yourself comfortable in. Even in moving across town, you've remained with me, ever vigilant against the encroaching tide of tasteless meat. Woe betide the slabs of Salisbury who refuse salience. You're there to bring them down.

The thing is, they've been scarce as of late. I've learned, Mr Sauce. I'm older and wiser now, and I know how to take care of myself. The steaks I come across put on a tough face, but I've learned that more often than not, they'll relent with a bit of pressure, and a bit of salt rub. When the heat is on they can't cope, they sweat profusely, they weep, they change their colors. Oh yes, I've learned well.

But it was you that opened the door to that knowledge, Mr. Sauce.

A small smile crosses my face as I gingerly right you, placing you in a spot on the door. Right between the ketchup and the spicy mustard, in fact. Perhaps your patience will rub off on them; they've always been a restless couple. A bit of time with a fine, flavourful being such as yourself would do them some good.

You'll remain in my fridge, Mr. Sauce. Even should I never require your help again, you will remain there until you're no longer able to assist me. Possibly longer. Never will I forget the doors you've opened for me, the steaks, the marinades, the brisket, the stir fry. Not all of them make use of you, my friend. But you made them all possible.