Food Poetry 15: Gravy, and a Meditation on Thanksgiving

Turkey day is almost upon us, and I know what you're probably thinking about: Should I roast, grill, or fry the bird? Should I stuff it or bake the dressing on the side? Does everyone have to be subjected to Auntie M's Cranberry Surprise, or can I tell her I'll make the cranberry sauce this year?! How many pies should I make? Do I have enough serving dishes?

Or perhaps there are other things on your mind. Maybe you're wondering how you're going to make it through the day this year without the loved one you miss so much. Or if it's possible to keep the thinly veiled criticism and simmering resentment (not to mention bitter recrimination) that often crops up between family members out of the dining room and off the table. Possibly you're worrying over how to handle that perennial question about when you're going to finish your thesis, or get married, or have a baby.

Or you might be trying to find a way to resolve, once again, the inevitable argument over whether you'll spend the day with your parents or your partner's, or the one about whether your kids will spend the day with you or with your ex.

If you're single and of a certain temperament, you might be thinking of a story to concoct for well-meaning acquaintances who find out that you're not going to be with family and say, "Why don't you come to our house? We're already having 20 people over—one more would be no problem!", when you'd really rather be alone. Or with family that's too far away to visit, or is no more.

Ringing any holiday bells for you? You're in good company. Not everyone's Thanksgiving resembles the Norman Rockwell version in the picture, and I think many of us fall into the trap of feeling either somehow inferior or totally left out if ours doesn't look that way, or if we have mixed feelings about it. While Rockwell was certainly presenting an ideal (he's quoted as saying "I paint life as I would like it to be"), the image isn't titled "Freedom from Family Strife" or even "The Typical American Family." We can look at "Freedom from Want" (the painting's actual title) as a portrayal of the incredible good fortune, which so many of us enjoy in this country, of simply having plenty to eat. We don't have to lay a lot of extra stuff on the holiday about the way it's "supposed" to be.

Whatever situation you find yourself in this Thanksgiving—whether you're making a pot of chili and eating it by yourself, going to an Italian restaurant with a couple of good friends, donating your time at a dinner for those less fortunate, or pulling out that turkey roaster and filling pie crusts for a large family gathering—I wish you a day full of comforting food that you can be thankful for.

And speaking of the food, last year I found a Thanksgiving-related poem to share, and so it is again this time. Poet Barbara Crooker paints a delicious picture in words of the traditional American meal by focusing on one of its most-loved components. Enjoy.

GRAVY

To make good gravy, you must be patient,
let the juice settle to the bottom, let the fat
float to the top in all its golden light. Skim
it with a thin spoon, take its measure. Equal
it with flour, sprinkle with salt, speckle
with pepper.  Stir constantly in the roasting pan,
making figure eights with a wooden spoon.
Scrape off strips of skin, bits of meat; incorporate
them in the mixture, like a difficult uncle
or the lonely neighbor invited out of duty.
Keep stirring.  Hand the wooden baton
to one of your daughters; it's time for her
to start learning this music, the bubble and
seethe as it plays the score.  One minute
at the boil, then almost like magic, it's gravy,
a rich velvet brown.  Thin it with broth,
stir in chopped giblets, then pour into
its little boat, waiting with mouth open.
Take up your forks, slide potatoes, stuffing,
gravy, into your mouth, hum under your breath.
Oh, the holy family of gravy, all those
little odd bits and pieces, the parts that could
be discarded, but aren't; instead, transformed
into a warm brown blanket that makes
delicious every thing it covers.

–By Barbara Crooker, from Line Dance, published by Word Press in 2008. Reprinted with the kind permission of the author.