Measuring Your Worth in a Gravy Boat

On the eve of my deceased father’s birthday I am making gravy from scratch. White gravy to be exact. Lumpy white gravy.

I am a “make-it-from-scratch” gravy maker. Lumps are unacceptable. There is a certain art form in making gravy especially if you aren’t using drippings of any kind. Usually I make the ever so tasty sausage gravy, but not today. Butter, flour and milk. The first batch? Too flour-y. (Not a word, I get that) I try and try, sweating, brows furrowed, to get them to go away because God forbid I have to strain the gravy. That’s what my sister has to do. My dad used to beam that I could make gravy that didn’t have to be secretly strained in the pantry when nobody was looking. Why? Lumpy gravy is NOT acceptable. Pour it out. Frustrated now I start over. More butter, less flour and more milk. Too thin. What the hell is wrong with me!? Now for what takes a delicate touch. Tempering. Mix water with the flour separately and then add it. Once. Twice. Third times a charm. I hope. I’ve tasted it. I’ll eat anything put on a biscuit. Almost anything. So why do I leave the gravy on the stove and come outside to contemplate my gravy failure this morning? I don’t know. I’m ashamed maybe I’ve failed the gravy Gods. One does not simply make gravy. You create it. Le Sigh. I will NOT let my self worth be measured by the size of lumps in my gravy. I simply cannot.

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