Ever wonder what Thanksgiving in a dorm room looks like? Here's a shoutout to the gals and guys at NYU's Third North for this delicious glimpse. Daughter Madeline's contribution was a first for her - the turkey gravy. My heart was in my throat for her. It has taken me years to get the hang of the process. There must be 50 ways to glop it up, and I should know, speaking from experience.
The NYU gang had the Macy's Parade in the morning, so in Texas, I was calmly stirring my gravy hours before Madeline would step up to the pan. This was good; I could time certain steps (how long should you cook the drippings and flour paste before adding milk?) and send her tips. My version was an especially good batch this year - practice does help. I wished Madeline was home to taste it, but I was glad she sampled her first Macy's Parade from the actual event, not the TV. I sent her a long, incoherent text message that probably read like a tearful mom being a sap.
In my head, I thought I'd just make another batch of gravy when it was time for her to start, so we could stir it up together. Well, it didn't work out that way. Madeline got started on her own, and that's how it should be - what time in the kitchen is all about. She did call mid-process, and it felt good to be on the other end of the line, like a Butterball Hotline counselor imparting the wisdom of the ages.
She took her lumps; I kept mine in my throat. She had to get off the phone; I couldn't expect her to listen to me while pouring and stirring - if you're the gravy maker you know what I mean. It is a delicate process.
I trudged outdoors for some firewood and kept telling myself "it's just gravy, it's not a college essay. Get the salt and pepper right, and what's not to like? Hungry people will eat it." I give her snaps for even attempting it.
Later as I was stirring the fire, she called to say that everything was fine.
Good gravy. Everything was fine.
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