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.

 

From Line Dance (Word Press, 2008).

Used with the author's permission.