My mother is a gravy master, black belt level. I’m admitting now that I’ve never attempted to make gravy except my canned broth version, which puddles around my insipid Swedish meatballs. How can I dare try making gravy with such a gravy legacy?
One of my sisters has a gravy addiction. She almost OD’d in Paris on all the legendary sauces and gravies. Rumor has it that she even dipped her room service croissant in a side of gravy that she smuggled in, rather than the usual strawberry preserves.
The day after Thanksgiving, we all huddle around the stove and watch as the leftover gravy slowly transforms from its congealed blob into that hallowed liquid. No one says a peep; we’re all like dogs in a kennel at overdue feeding time.
Salivating, we sit and wait for the platter to make its way to the table. Then all at once, 10 giant spoons clash like cymbals as we fight over the first spoonful of gravy. The mealtime conversation focuses on—what else? Gravy. Ah, that’s how life is when you live to eat.
The other serious part of Thanksgiving dinner is the desserts. I’m not talking about a few pies, but a tabletop full of who-can-outdo-whom desserts. This year, I’m not up to making anything. My mother seems to wait for this one day each year to bake herself into a frenzy: pumpkin, date, cranberry, chocolate cream, pecan, grape nut—all her favorites in one big sugar-laced buffet extravaganza.
Yet even with all those sweets and the box of leftovers I usually cart home, somehow, the next day, I find myself in some sort of trance as I pick out, pay for, and eat three cinnamon doughnuts before I even make it to the car. It must be the holiday stress.
Instead of feeling full at Thanksgiving, it makes me feel old. It used to be that every time I walk in the door, my father would regale anyone within earshot that I’m ... ahem ... cough ... a certain age over 40. He waves his arm in my general direction and I feel like a horse waiting to have its teeth inspected.
Now the passage of time is being marked in a rather unique way. During the holidays, we all sit around and critique the previous years’ videos. Special attention is paid to who had more hair, more flab, and the most attractive clothing or best-looking ex-husband.
Every time the camera ungraciously zooms in on someone’s backside, we utter a collective sigh. While viewing a Christmas holiday video of a few years back, I admitted, “Golly, I was so fat, look at that double chin.” To which my cherubic
7-year-old niece assured me, “You still have a double chin, auntie.”
Guess who’s getting coal in her stocking this year?
Humorist and freelance scribe Joyce Faiola is a consultant/designer for the hospitality industry and lives in Connecticut. Her e-mail is JLFaiola@Juno.com
