Back in the beginning of our holidays together, my guy cooked the entire turkey meal, including stuffing and gravy. When our kids were young, they observed him reach in the turkey cavity and bring out the giblets, which he cut up after boiling them in a pot of water. Then, in a pan of melting butter, he sautéed the giblets with onions and celery and slowly, slowly added the juices from the roasted turkey.
Watching faces alight with wonder, my guy allowed each child to add a tablespoon of flour. As they stirred to thicken the homemade gravy, he’d admonish, “Slower. Slower still. Gently stir.”
But that was then. And back then, the gravy was delicious (although I always picked out the giblets).
They buy their gravy from a local farm store.
It’s okay. But it’s not thick, slow-stirred, homemade gravy.
I prefer my gravy slowly stirred with love and patience and guidance. I don’t want to be rushed in my life.
I want the slow steady days of roasting a thought, a story, a dream all day, boiling the innards of my being through meditation and writing, hugging and laughing, rocking on my porch in the sun.
I want to slowly add the thickening – a good book, a long lingering kiss from my guy, a hug from a grandson. These are the ingredients that make the gravy in my life simmer from a thin sauce to a sumptuous and lavish one.
The gravy in my life can’t be store bought.
Instead, give me the slow steady days of thoughtful simmering.
The older I get, the more I realize that each homemade gravy day is a blessing.