Butter is light as air and heavy as lead. It is greasy. It is a brilliant yellow and it leaves the sheen of gold coins on your fingers when you handle it. Cold butter is a stubborn bitch. It tears holes in toast and pulls apart rolls. Warm butter is yielding and generous. It disappears into dough. It shines pans and makes breads glisten. It carries a butterfly net over its shoulder and catches the light. Butter falls off the knife and can be smeared any which way. It drops from the peel of soft waxed paper into a bowl of flour, and the flour puffs gently. Butter beaten with granulated sugar is decadent. It is just shy of being a socially acceptable dessert. I could eat it from a glass bowl with a silver grapefruit spoon. I would do this and things like it if they were socially acceptable. If the butter dripped from the corners of my lips and set my chin aglow, I’d wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and then carelessly wipe my forehead. It would be orchestrated but I would make it look incidental. I’d shine for you from across the table, and you would find me fresh and beautiful, glowing with fat under the chandelier.