Fooooood

It looks something like this.

The call went out at work a few weeks ago, as it occasionally does, for stories. Tell us the stories behind your Thanksgiving recipes, our food editor implored.

My first response: Pick a food item and I'll give you the story. Mom's stuffing goes back to when she lived in Pennsylvania and her home-cookin' neighbor shared a recipe, likely off a box of Saltines, that is equal parts delicious and terrible for your health. The stuffing has a stick and a half of butter in it. It's a miracle I'm not on medications.

Turkeys? How about the time I bought five of them in Utah because they were $5 apiece. We ate turkey dinner once a month until May. The Wife introduced me to cooking turkey in a plastic bag. I am forever grateful.

But the gravy story is the best because gravy is sentimental to me. Yes, I'm a male blogger who gets sentimental about gravy. Now you've seen it all.

Grandma was a pragmatic woman. She was quick to laugh at a good joke but she didn't dilly-dally in elaborate tales. And she didn't kid around.

In 1996, Grandma caught wind of a family controversy. Rather than spill the beans, Grandma kept it cool and slyly let me in on the secret to her gravy. Yep, gravy can have a secret ingredient.

My story, as part of a lovely Press Herald package of stories about Thanksgiving cooking: 

"Gravy is an afterthought. When people talk about Thanksgiving, the gravy is simply assumed. It’s brown, it’s fatty and you drown your plate in it.

After all, it’s a simple recipe. But my Grandma had a secret ingredient that was the root of a years-long family argument.

My brother and I were oblivious to most things cooking. But in our wildly rebellious teenage years, we picked up on something: Grandma’s gravy tasted better than Mom’s gravy. In fact, it wasn’t even close.

“I make it just like she taught me,” my mom would insist, both amused and annoyed by our claim that her gravy wasn’t up to Grandma’s level.

At age 19, I demanded to watch Grandma make the Thanksgiving gravy. For the first 20 minutes, it was classic. Take the turkey drippings and get the skin and gross stuff out. Put the turkey pan on the oven and heat it. Add some cornstarch until it thickens up.

Grandma always loved a conspiracy. She had heard my brother and me insisting her gravy was different. As the gravy thickened, she elbowed me in the chops. “Get the hot sauce out of the cupboard,” she said quietly.

I was stunned. “Seriously?”

She just looked at me. She was serious. Just two or three shakes ought to be enough. Three dabs of Tabasco sauce went into the gravy. I stirred and tasted. Perfect, just like always. Mom is still in disbelief.

I’ve lived in six states and moved 16 times since that Thanksgiving 20 years ago, but I’ve made that gravy every year. A little dab of a simple ingredient can make all the difference."