FAMILY | LIFE SKILLS

Waiting for Gravy: A Hunger Games Thanksgiving Edition

Grandma’s gravy boot camp ensured no mashed potato was left behind

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Small kids. Car rides. Too many olives. The trail of sickness traces back to yet another gravy caper, which recurred every Thanksgiving in a slightly different incarnation.

This time it unfurled at Great Aunt Alice’s house near Hollywood. While her effort was steadfast, she lacked the practice of calculating gravy production time for a large brood of guests. She had other gifts. She could play the drums, violin, and traveled with an all-women orchestra in the 1930s. Gravy skills were not a priority. We knew it and loved her for it.

Starvation and lack of life experience led me to the olive tray over and over during what felt like a painful eternity. My appetite was ruined, as was the inside of my parents’ car on the way home.

I learned the hard way that everyone must wait for the gravy. Or must we?

Unlike my Great Aunt Alice, my Grandma Helen, Alice’s sister was the Kingpin of gravy-making at Thanksgiving no matter the family venue. Her methods were part militant and part magic. We knew to stay out of her way, and to also praise her when the small amount of liquid gold was produced…