What It Means To Me by Barbara Lee
When I roast a chicken or a turkey and there's the possibility of gravy, I feel the spirit of my deceased father-in-law, Homer, hovering over my shoulder. Homer loved gravy; on meat, on potatoes, on biscuits, on anything. He was a kind man who loved deeply and he had the greatest smile you can imagine, albeit with store-bought teeth. Started out as a poor Oklahoma white/Cherokee kid who never graduated from high school, went into the public works program during the Great Depression, was a veteran of WWII who mustered out with skills as a mechanic, married a woman of such beauty that he shivered at the sight of her, provided for her two kids, became a Dad of one son and then beloved Grandpa to my kid. Anyone who thinks I fret needlessly about the gravy doesn't know what it means to me.
They don't make men like this any more, do they? The new ones have their own charm, but nothing like the Homers and the James Houstons of the world.
Posted by: Susan Bono | August 03, 2009 at 04:25 PM
I think gravy is the key to a lot of things.
Posted by: Graham Moody | August 05, 2009 at 09:54 AM
Your father's gravy making reminds me of one of the recipes from "The Joy of Cooking:" the spine-sprung, stained edition given to me by my mother so many years ago. After a fairly complicated recipe, Erma Bombeck writes, "Taste the gravy. If it isn't good, make it good." Not a bad approach to a lot of things.
Posted by: Jill Myers | August 26, 2009 at 12:00 PM