When I am cooking with large spices, bay leaf or tamarind, I have to sift the stew or curry through a sieve. Out come chunks of curry paste and debris, hard stems and shell, like rain gutters after a storm. Left is thick but smooth broth, silky and sedate, no hidden landmines for the teeth or senses.
Washing out the colander, I imagine what a day would be like, if I could drain out the excess and save the good, retaining only the parts I wished to lay claim to, watching the difficult, confusing events and exchanges slide away down the disposal. Maybe all women are like this, and the ones that are good with a sieve standout. Grace Kelly would be a fine soufflé, fluffy but firm, and I would be poorly made Hollandaise sauce, chunky with pools of hot egg and coagulated butter. The thought that practice makes perfect helps. I also read that Grace Kelly slept around a lot—that helps, too.