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Giblet Gravy

Screen Shot 2015-11-26 at 7.45.17 AMThe aroma of cornbread dressing baking in the oven takes me back to being a kid and standing by a stove. Mom and her sisters, Doris and Nell, began taking turns hosting holiday meals in the 1950s. The hostess roasted a turkey and made the dressing, and the other two sisters prepared the side dishes. All three made a dessert and all three had a hand in the gravy no matter where our family celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas.

At our house while the dressing baked, Mom poured the warm turkey drippings from the roasting pan into a bowl. She set a saucepan on the stove eye and turned the setting to medium.   Then she cut a hunk of butter, dropped it into the pan, and handed me a wooden stirring spoon. Aunt Nell and Aunt Doris stood close.

“Now, Ruth,” Aunt Doris said to Mom, “are you sure that pan is big enough?”

“It’s the one I always use,” Mom answered.

“It looks too small to me.”

“You said that last time we made gravy here.”

Aunt Doris used her largest saucepan when we gathered at her house, and Mom always suggested that a smaller pan would be less washing.

Mom added a few spoonfuls of flour to the melted butter. I stirred. Aunt Nell said, “I never understand how you can make gravy and not measure the butter and flour.”

“You don’t think that looks right?” Mom asked.

“I’m sure it is, but I measure.” Aunt Nell looked in the pan. “That looks like it’s stirring up to the right consistency, don’t you think?”

I listened and stirred.

“We can always add a little more flour, mixed with water, if it’s too thin,” Mom said.

“Maybe. But my gravy gets lumpy when I add flour and water,” said Aunt Nell.

As the flour and butter mixture browned, I moved aside so all three sisters could judge its color. Not too light, not too dark. Mom skimmed some of the fat from the turkey drippings and picked up the bowl to pour the broth into the pan.

“I’d wait until it’s a little darker,” said Aunt Doris.

But Mom and Aunt Nell agreed the roux was a perfect caramel color so Mom slowly poured the broth into the pan. “Keep stirring,” she told me and she added a few shakes from the salt and pepper shakers.

While I stirred, Dad sliced the turkey. Mom chopped the cooked turkey gizzard and liver and a boiled egg in pea-size pieces. Aunt Nell and Aunt Doris loaded our dining room table with dressing, sweet potato casserole, white mashed potatoes, cream corn, green beans, lima beans, congealed cranberry salad and homemade yeast rolls.

I knew what came next. The gravy tasting. Each of the sisters dipped a spoon into the gravy saucepan. They blew gently to cool it and then tasted.

“Maybe a little more salt.”

“Do you think it’s thick enough?”

“It’s close to being ready.”

While Dad, uncles, grandparents, cousins, my brother and I stood behind our chairs around the dining room table, the cooks stood by the stove. They salted, stirred, and tasted until they finally agreed that the gravy was good enough to serve.

Mom added the giblets and chopped egg, gave one last stir, and then poured the hot gravy into her china gravy boat. She placed it on the table between the sliced turkey and cornbread dressing.

Moments Shared with Strangers

imgresMy friend, Kim, shared a grocery store experience that she called Memories Shared Between Strangers. Kim stood in a check out line between two strangers. A man, about age 80, in front of her and a man close to her age behind her. After the cashier scanned Kim’s groceries, he asked if Kim wanted to contribute one-dollar to St. Jude Hospital. Kim agreed, and then the clerk asked if she wanted her name on the donation. Kim shook her head. The customer behind her said, “Just write Bozo.”

“His comment led to a trip down memory lane for both of us,” Kim told me. “We reminisced about Bozo, Ms. Nancy and the Romper Room, the Magic Mirror and Captain Kangaroo. I remembered that when I was a kid I received a postcard from Ms. Nancy and my momma still has it. The young cashier probably thought we were crazy, but the stranger and I shared smiles and good memories.”

When Kim picked up her grocery bags, she noticed the older man who’d been in front of her was still standing close and was smiling. He’d heard the conversation. Kim wondered why he’d stayed to listen. Was it memories of his child watching those programs? Kim ended her story with these words: “Whatever it was, all three of us, all complete strangers, shared something special together in that moment. We all left the store a little happier.”

Last week as I put a few items on the check out counter at Hobby Lobby, the woman in front of me said, “Did you get my candy?” and she held up a candy bar for the clerk to see. The clerk shook her head, scanned the candy bar, and started to put it a plastic bag with the woman’s other purchases. “Oh, no,” the woman said, “the chocolate goes in my purse. I’m eating it as soon as I get to the car.” I laughed.

“I’m glad someone else treats herself after shopping,” I said. “I do that, too, sometimes.”

The clerk chuckled and then said, “It’s not just on your side of the counter. I’ve got M&Ms in my pocket right now. That’s my break time treat.” So while the clerk scanned my purchases, we three women laughed and talked about our need for an afternoon chocolate snack.

Maybe no one connects with smiles more often than we grandparents. It happens almost every time I have a Grand with me. I buckled Micah, 17 months old, in his car seat in my van parked in a store parking lot. As I started to close the van door, I heard a man’s voice. “Hello, there!” I turned and saw a gray-headed man, a stranger with a big smile. He stopped a few feet from me. “Is it okay if I say hello to your little guy?” It was. He made a silly face and noise and Micah laughed, and of course, both we adults laughed. The man and I talked briefly about the joys of grandchildren. He waved good-bye to Micah and went on his way.

Brief encounters. Just a few words. Shared memories. Mutual cravings for chocolate. Laughing with another grandparent. One or two minutes spent talking and laughing with total strangers. Here in the South, we call that being friendly.

A Homecoming Remembered

Screen Shot 2015-11-12 at 8.47.14 AMThe perfect suit hung in my closet. A three-piece wool suit Mom had made. Two-button jacket, A-line skirt, sleeveless top – all lined. We coeds dressed up for Tennessee Tech Homecoming in the late 1960s.

I loved the fabric of my suit – dull, rusty orange with flecks of gold and brown. But I didn’t like that the only dark-colored high-heeled shoes I owned were black. Mom thought they looked fine with my orange suit. My friends agreed with me that I needed brown heels.

During a gathering at Boyfriend’s (who is now Husband) fraternity house the week before Homecoming, I whined that I wanted new brown shoes to wear on Homecoming day. I wore an 11 AA, a shoe size not available in Cookeville, but I knew several stores in Nashville where I was sure I could find the perfect shoes. I didn’t have a car, and Boyfriend, who did, couldn’t take me shopping because he worked on weekends and after classes.

However, Boyfriend’s fraternity brother, Jim “Worm” Miller, heard my whining and offered to help. So on Saturday morning, Worm and I took off to Nashville so I could shop along downtown Church Street. We walked from store to store. Worm was patient and insisted that I try on many pairs of shoes, even ones that weren’t brown or high heeled. Finally, I bought a pair of leather, 1½” heels with crisscross wide straps and the perfect color, not just brown, but dark caramel. I was so proud.

On Homecoming morning when I put on my new suit and shoes, I was happy and felt good about my whole outfit. Even the cloudy, rainy day didn’t dampen my spirits. Boyfriend pinned a yellow rose corsage on my lapel, held an umbrella over our heads, and we walked across campus from my dormitory to the football stadium. Although it rained during the game, no one considered leaving. We put on raincoats and huddled under umbrellas, and my feet, and everyone else’s, got wet. Soaking wet.

Late that night when I finally took off my shoes, I poured water out of them and stuffed dormitory bathroom brown paper towels inside each shoe. I expected them to dry and be as good as new. Days later when my shoes finally dried, the shape was fine and I could wear them, but wavy lines and spots marked the leather. I scrubbed with leather cleaner and shined with clear shoe wax – caramel colored polish wasn’t available – but I couldn’t hide those ugly watermarks. My new shoes were ruined and I never wore them again. I hated that I’d spent so much of my clothing allowance for shoes I wore once, and I was disappointed that my beautiful shoes turned hideous.

You’d think I’d be the only person who’d remember this shoe story, but Worm never forgot. The times that I’ve seen him during the past almost fifty years, he always asks if I ever bought another good-looking pair of brown shoes. And then he reminisces about taking me shoe shopping and how I ruined my brand new Homecoming shoes in the rain. But neither of us remembers who won the football game.

Tech’s Homecoming is Saturday. I hope Worm and many other friends come for the weekend. We’ll laugh and tell stories of our college days. That’s what Homecoming is about now. Friends. Football. Stories. Laughing. Catching up on life.

And it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a new suit or shoes to wear.

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