Fun Monday - Do You Have to Tell That Story Again?

This week’s Fun Monday is hosted by Karisma. She wants to hear “The Story”. You know, the story that gets told and retold and embellished and told some more - at every family gathering.

The story that gets told and retold about me at my family’s holiday dinners is “The Gravy Story”. I was not really a child, I was 15 when this happened and it was not during the holidays, but there you have it.

My sisters are 10 and 13 years older than I am. When I turned into an obnoxious child, back in the day when preteen was not yet a word, my parents would send me to my sister’s house for the summer, or at least a good portion of it.

My sister was an uber-housewife. Her house was clean, her child was clean and his clothes were pressed, as were her tablecloths. She actually, and I kid you not, trimmed her lawn with manicure scissors. She ran a perfect household.

When my brother-in-law got home from work, his home was his castle. His queen had fresh makeup, her hair was perfect, dinner was cooking and there were NO problems.

So, the year I was 15, my nephew was 2 and my sister was pregnant. I was spending the summer there to help with my nephew and because my parents did not trust me at home. I truly was a horrible person at that age.

My sister went to the hospital and had a beautiful baby girl. I was at home with the 2 year old and my brother-in-law went to work.

I set out to be my sister. The grocery store was within walking distance of their house, so shopping was not a problem.

I decided to cook a roast beef dinner with all the trimmings. No problem. I cooked the roast, peeled and cooked the potatoes, mashed them, made a salad, and heated up some green beans. I washed up the kitchen, set the dining room table, washed and changed and ironed my nephew and made sure that everything was perfect.

The problem arose when I decided to make gravy. My mother is an EXCELLENT cook. She just doesn’t like people in her kitchen and, to be honest with you, by the time I came along her patience and desire to teach another person to cook were nil. But I HAD watched.

So I took the plastic container thingy and mixed the water and the flour and shook it just right and stirred some into the pan drippings. It looked OK, but a little thick. I added some more. Still a little thick. I added just a scoche more and decided to quit while I was ahead. I put the gravy into the then traditional gravy boat and served dinner.

My brother-in-law is a very kind man. He tried. He honestly tried. When the spoon stood in the middle of the gravy straight up, he told me as kindly as he could that he just couldn’t eat it. He carried it out to the kitchen and turned the cup over.

The gravy slid out in one piece, landed in the sink, and stood there quivering exactly like a jello mold.

We went out to eat.

And I still do NOT make gravy!