Chronically Ironic

·The Gravy Incident

I am from the South, for the most part.  Not in that annoying, drawly, bat-your-eyes kind of way, but I have lived most of my life in Texas, and my dad is from West Virginia, so I think I have license to say that I am from the South.  Being from the South, unless you are crazy rich and have no family, your obligation for all functions is to learn how to cook at least one thing well.  Not braggin’, but I make more than one thing well, but I had one particular thing that I was always too afraid of, as I knew it was a delicate balance of good and evil inside a skillet:  Gravy.

To be more specific, CREAM gravy, the kind that must accompany the following:  Biscuits, chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and pretty much anything else you want.  I had been daunted by the task for a long while, never attempting to make it until I met my current boyfriend.  He has a love of biscuits and gravy, and I aim to please.  I sucked it up and called my mom. 

My parents have been married for 49 years.  This alone is amazing.  What is also amazing is that fact that my mom, a Northern Californian with zero experience of even what cream gravy was, has learned to master this difficult and intrinsic delicacy out of necessity.  I think she might be able to make it blindfolded with one hand tied behind her back.  She explained to me in great detail what the consistency should be like at each stage, etc – I think I even stayed on the phone with her during my first attempt.  The first attempt, surprisingly, was delicious.  I mean, perfect.  I was ecstatic. 

For those of you that do not understand the importance of the gravy, let me explain.  The problem with not knowing how to make it correctly is just that – a SERIOUS problem.  It will taste like glue, or worse – grease.  Not too thick, not too thin – if it’s not just right, then it ain’t fuckin’ gravy.  It’s shit.  Don’t even put it on the plate, just throw it the fuck down the drain. 

So.  I made it.  I was happy.  It tasted and looked and felt right.  I had also made homemade biscuits, which tasted like heaven exploding inside your mouth.  I transferred the gravy from the pan into a medium-sized white bowl and was on my way to the table with the gloriousness of it when, out of nowhere, there was a countertop directly in my way.  Don’t get the wrong idea; the countertop had always been there.  It was fucking stationary.  I just somehow did not get my foot around the island at the right time and holy shit the gravy bowl hits the side of the counter and dammit to all hell spills ALL OVER MY FLOOR. 

I wept.  Literally. 

My boyfriend offered to lick it off the floor.  I told him through my soggy tears, that was not necessary.  I then called my mom.  She felt bad for me, but I could almost hear her laughing a little. 

I have never tried to make cream gravy again.  I am waiting for the Apocalypse.  Then if I spill it, only Jesus will care.  I will then be soundly judged for my horrible performance as a Southern Female, and be sent straight to Hell. 

Why Girls Cry