We sit at the counter, and Ronan is mesmerized watching Saucepan. “Man, she’s got some arm muscles on her.” He leans over and whispers, “What’s her tattoo of?”

“A ship’s anchor with a saucepan hanging off the bottom. When she flexes her muscles, the pan swings back and forth a bit.”

“That’s wicked cool.” He laughs.

“And on her wrist she has the Yarmouth firefighter badge. Most firefighters in town have one.”

Saucepan reaches over and gives a rubber chicken a few squeaks. That’s the signal for the waitresses that there are meals to deliver. Then she resumes an old argument with the regulars. “There are worse things than spending a day on a boat. I hang over a hot stove.”

“Oh, c’mon! Are you kidding me?” one of the guys shoots back. “In January, the wind makes your bones crack. I’d give my teeth to stand over a hot stove. And no one has ever died making sauce.”

“Well,” she says, “you can yammer on about bones cracking, but if there’s a few sprinkles out, I see you here hunched over a hot cup of coffee. And I hear you bragging about the patience you have in catching fish. You want to know about patience? Try making a fine sauce.”

“What’s sauce got to do with patience?” another regular asks.

“Everything!” she bellows, pointing her whisk at him. “A good cook knows you can’t go turning up the heat because you’re impatient; you gotta let it simmer. Take its time. Let all of those flavors come into their own. Because if you rush it . . . well, it won’t satisfy. But . . .” She leans forward. “If you cook it just right, folks can’t shake the memory of it and long for another taste. That’s what brings them back.”

“You mean to tell me,” a fisherman says, “that you think that it takes more patience to cook a sauce than to fish on the ocean when you can’t see land in any direction and you’re out there for hours in all kinds of weather? Dealing with seasickness and engine troubles and any number of other things that happen?”

“Yeah. Because a sauce takes time and love. Once you catch the fish, the job is done. God’s done all the work for you.”

Amid the grumbling of a bunch of fishermen, she whips her head around to look at us. “Hey!” she says, pointing at Ronan. “Is your name Ronan?”

“Uh . . . yeah?” he says, pushing his chin forward.

“You ever flipped a crepe?”

“A crepe?”

“Yeah, a crepe. It’s like a very thin pancake, and we put fruit and other things inside.”

“Why?”

“Just answer. You flipped a crepe before or not?”

Ronan turns around, I guess to check if there’s someone behind him that she’s really talking to.

When he turns back, she points at him again. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, short stack.”

He spreads his feet apart. “Don’t call me that.”

She squints one eye. “Okay. I’m sorry. But don’t you be worrying about how big you are. I’ve known plenty of big men who didn’t have a drop of bravery. Being strong in the ways that matter has nothing to do with muscles. It’s about the size of a man’s heart and soul. Not his shirt size.”