Bottle That Sh*t Up

I saw a great episode of Queer Eye the other day where the Fab 5 convinced these 2 charming restauranteur-sisters to bottle up their barbecue sauce and sell it. Like everyone who is touched by the Fab 5, they cried. Over a bottle of barbecue sauce.

They’d been in business for years, people loved their flavor, so why hadn’t they done it sooner, especially if it meant so much to them? It seems a silly choice to keep a beloved recipe from the rest of the world, yet we all do this: refuse to bottle up our sauce.

Like the barbecue sisters, we have several (good) reasons:

We don’t want to give away our recipe.
We don’t want to ruin the mystery by deconstructing the recipe.
We don’t want to know that our recipe can, in fact, be broken down.
We don’t want to degrade our recipe by making it easily repeatable.
We don’t want to learn that someone else has already made our recipe.
We don’t want to find out our recipe isn’t special.

These are all good reasons that will surely succeed in convincing you to avoid understanding and sharing your gifts. Your magic will be yours and yours alone, like a superhero that can only fly when no one is watching, a dragon banished to a cave, or those cartoon yard trolls that do amazing things in the grass as long as the humans aren’t around.

One of the great things about time is how it applies pressure on you to carry out your story.

You can feel it in the morning and the evenings, in the spaces between your other obligations: an impatient and reliable shoving, an incessant faraway beeping to let you know you dozed off at the light.

If you’re lucky, that nudge will get more annoying than the fear of getting answers to all of your questions. You’ll stop protecting and start sharing.

And we’ll all finally get a taste.


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