Gravy Wars

Every Wednesday, Delores throws down the gauntlet.

A series of six words.

Which is then picked up by her disciples.

With more - or less - success.

You be the judge!

This week: Mellifluous, endangered, crabby, flaunt, gravy and turpentine

Gravy Wars

It's tougher than it looks...

Mom was an excellent cook.

She could make almost anything taste fantastic.

Almost.

She did have her weaknesses.

Her soggy boiled spinach was consumed only with copious amounts of vinegar or butter.

And we won’t even mention her disastrous attempts at lutefisk.

Though I have to admit I have yet to find anyone who can make that eat-able.

Moving on . . .

Mom taught me how to cook.

Of course I was always a better taste-er than cook-er.

But let’s not go there.

She showed me how to make a pot roast.

And how to use the drippings for delicious, smooth and mellifluous (does that work here?) gravy.

Yum.

Mostly, my forays into the heavenly land of roasted meat and gravy were acceptable.

Sometimes, they weren’t.

But it was one of those ‘less-than-satisfactory’ occasions that gave rise to a new family tradition . . .

On Sundays, before leaving for church, Mom had taught me to put a roast in the oven. Thus, when the family returned from services, the smell of deliciousness would be wafting through the house, making mouths water and giving the impression that food was forthcoming.

Which it was.

Eagerly, the family would perform such tasks as: Changing out of ‘Sunday’ clothes. Setting the table. Drooling.

While Mom (me) whipped up the accompaniments to the main dish.

In short order, everyone was seated and shoveling.

Until Mom (me, again) brought out the gravy.

Now, up until now, my gravy had been a little on the thin side.

On this auspicious day, it was . . . thick.

Really thick.

Eat with a fork thick.

Husby took the bowl, obligingly spooned some of the contents onto his potatoes and beef.

Spread it around with his knife.

And made an unfortunate comment of which the words ‘wallpaper paste’ alone were discernible.

Can I say it? It made me . . . crabby.

Let me get the turpentine to thin it out crabby.

After that, when the smell of roast beef drifted through the air, Husby was the person at the stove, making the gravy.

It has become a family tradition.

And his gravy is legendary.

He doesn’t flaunt his superiority.

Okay, maybe he does.

A little.

But it’s well-deserved.

Isn’t it amazing when traditions are started for the sole purpose of not endangering lives?

His.