Definition
1 : the ground of a legal action
2 : the main point or part : essence
The word gist often appears in such contexts as "the gist of the conversation was that…" to let us know that what follows will be a statement or summary that in some way encapsulates the main point or overarching theme. The gist of a conversation, argument, story, or what-have-you is what we rely on when the actual words and details are only imperfectly recalled, inessential, or too voluminous to recount in their entirety. Gist was borrowed from the Anglo-French legal phrase laccion gist ("the action lies or is based [on]") in the 17th century, and it was originally used in law as a term referring to the foundation or grounds for a legal action without which the action would not be legally sustainable.
The vanilla essence was missing. I looked through my various spice racks, baking provision cupboards, wine cabinet and cutlery drawer repeatedly, turning round and round in my kitchen like some sort of demented, anxiety ridden squirrel, sure that I had buried my nuts for the winter right there but they were no where to be found.
There were no nuts. Thus, this squirrel would starve for the winter and never again feel the sweet bliss of spring.
Ok, time to put a stop to the spiraling. I'd had the vanilla essence. There was always some somewhere. I mean, the amount of times I'd bought an extra bottle, only to discover I already had two (one usually unopened) in the cupboard was ridiculous. Please do not tell me this was the one and only time I'd assumed that I had some when, in fact, I did not.
Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.
No. no. Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic. It's just vanilla essence, it's not the end of the world.
I mean, sure, without it I couldn't finish making desert - which would mean the dinner would be missing a course, which would simply highlight my innate personal failures to the very people I was striving to impress in order to gain funding for culinary college, which would mean I would fail to enter culinary college, which meant I would fail at what I wanted to do in this lifetime, which meant I would spend the rest of my days scraping dog shit off a badly paved pavement for pittance - whilst living on said pavement in a cardboard box.
I needed that vanilla essence.
I grabbed my phone and texted my mate to see if she had any. She did! Result! I asked her to bring it over.
The phone rang.
"Babe, you know i'd bring it over in a heartbeat - but when's this fancy dinner of yours again?"
"In about two and a half hours." I said, nervously biting my nails.
"You do remember that I live at least a four hour drive away from you? You know, since I moved over here last Christmas."
"Bitch." I wailed down the phone at her.
"Since you are very clearly not in your right mind at this current moment, I'm not going to take that statement to heart."
"Is there anyone else you can ask? Your mum?"
"No." I sobbed. "She'a an attendee. I mean, she'll give it to me but..."
"You'll never hear the end of it." She finished. "Ok, so she's out. What about your neighbours?"
"Mrs Crankle is away for the weekend and my other neighbour is a pot head." I sniffled.
"A pothead? That's great! They make brownies and shit like that. Plus they're always having the munchies. They're bound to have some. Go over and ask. Call me back and let me know how it goes."
"Speak in a minute." I sniffled.
***
"So, how did it go? Did they have any?"
"No." I cried down the phone. "But I must have looked pretty bad cause they gave me some free weed oil to put in it in case I'm desperate."
"Oh, well, that was nice of them."
"Uh-huh"
"And not a bad idea if you're this crazy already and having even started dishing up yet."
"I am not getting my guests stoned." I snapped, then paused. "I mean, not unless i have to."
"Let's just keep it in mind as an option. Speaking of alternatives, could you not put sugar in instead of the vanilla or something?"
I took a deep breath in. I would not, at this current moment, dive into every single issue that was wrong with that sentence, about the deep intricacies of flavouring and balance necessary and vital to every single sweet (and indeed savoury) dish that needed to be carefully minded. My friend was being kind, and was not a natural baker (or cook) herself. She was trying to be helpful.
Plus I did not have the time to go on a three hour rant. My guests now arrived in, i glanced at the clock, two hours and fifteen minutes.
Huh, I hadn't thought it was possible to be even more anxious than I already was but apparently it was. I cloud feel the sweat, an hour ago just a slight trickle of one or two droplets down my spine, now progressing into a full blown torrential downpour.
I need to shower, I needed to wash the liver and flour out of my hair (I do not like gutting fish or fowl) and i needed to wear something that wasn't going to make my guests run screaming at the sight of me.
But first I needed to fix the damn desert.
"And you're sure that you haven't got any, anywhere in the house?"
"I'm as sure as a person with severe control freak issues in a highly organised kitchen can be after looking in the same places six times for twenty minutes." I said flatly.
"Do you have any in your bedroom or bathroom? I know you once told me that you sometimes like to use it as perfume?"
The phone didn't even have time to hit the floor as I dropped it and sprinted up the stairs. My friend's voice emitted tinnily from the small speakers and I could barely make out her words as she berated me for potentially destroying my phone in my haste.
My slow, heavy footsteps must have spoken for me, as when I returned with a heavy heart and picked up my phone from where it had fallen on the floor, my friend was already offering me her condolences.
"There must be something we can do." She mused. "Don't you have any corner shops or garages that you can buy stuff from?"
"I really doubt they'll have anything." I said gloomily. "They're more like newsagents - so they're full or sweets, weird beverages, dodgy magazines and about a billion kinds of tobacco. I can't imagine them having any baking supplies. Any anywhere that would definitely sell it, i'd have to take the car and go as they're too far away. By the time i'd get back it would be too late to finish the desert or even have a proper shower. I'd be a failure once i'd opened the door looking like some sort of oozing zombie dog had taken a giant shit on me."
"...... and what a delightful image that is - one that I most assuredly will never, ever be able to scrub from the archives of my imagination, no matter how hard i tried."
"It's over." I said, my heart resigned to my fate. "Even if some did miraculously drop into my lap in the next fifteen minutes, i will never get it done in time. Face it, it's over and I will have to spend the rest of my adult life living on a cardboard box earning pennies by scrubbing the pavement with a used toilet brush."
"You know, you have some seriously gross imagery going on in your head there. I can't believe you're actually a chef with that unhygienic mess going on up in your head."
"I'm very clean physically - and when I cook." I said defensively. "All the dirt says on the inside."
"So it seems." She hesitated. "Wait, you work full time locally right?"
"Yes."
"So how do you manage to get your baking supplies normally? Aren't the shops shut when you come home? Or do you get hem in your lunch break or at the weekend."
I snorted. "What lunch break? I'm in catering - you either eat as you go or you starve. Same with weekends, i work most of them so if i want to practice cooking in my own time, I have to make sure I have the ingredients to hand and not waste time buying them."
"So how do you get your hands on them then?"
"Same as ever other full time working adult - I order them online."
"Di you do an online order recently?"
Suddenly, a heavenly light shone upon my battered soul. "You beautiful creature."
I dashed to the office where i had stashed a whole bunch of packages we'd recently received, so they'd be out of sight from the guests. there, amongst the bunch, was a small parcel. as i ripped the cardboard open, a small, bottle, filled with warm brown goodness, fell into my had.
I shrieked with joy.
"So you do have one. Great." My friend said, amused. "Well, now that you've permanently destroyed my hearing, I'm going to turn this car around and get on with my day."
"You could come to dinner if you're close?" I suggested, too blissed out to realise the destruction and havoc this would cause with my plating. Apparently this thought hadn't bypassed my friend and she politely declined.
"Nah, it's ok." she said. "I'm still closer to home than yours. Just let me know how it goes - and you owe me one ok?"
"Anytime." I said, barely listening.
"Good luck!"
I headed off to do battle once again.
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