Gravy Shame

Several years ago, I shamed myself, my ancestors, and the great state of Idaho. I didn’t mean to do it. After a scrumptious Thanksgiving meal with my extended family, I committed the unpardonable—I wasted the Gravy. They say that blood is thicker than water. In my family, Gravy is thicker than blood.

My family hails from Idaho, home of the humble Potato. We grew up in the mountains outside of Pocatello, and Potatoes were at the root of our existence. Dad grew a crop, enough to feed the seven of us with plenty to store for the winter. My older sister trudged home from her job at the potato chip factory reeking from the starch of ten million Potato peelings. When I was five, I got a penny for every Potato bug I captured. We ate spuds every imaginable way, but the family’s favorite will always be mashed Potatoes.

As any self-respecting Idahoan knows, the making of mashed Potatoes is an art. I once used potatoes that were not Idaho grown, and I made that mistake only once. My mom and sister were the Tuber Queens, and their skill at making them is legendary.

Even more sacred than the spud is that ultimate topping, Gravy. If a Potato won an Academy Award, she would thank Gravy first. Have I mentioned that Gravy and Potato are proper nouns in our family, and as a result, cannot be played in Scrabble?

My mother was the Goddess of Gravy, and before every holiday meal, she magically prepared it while my sister and I watched with open-mouthed awe. I was 52 before I was allowed to touch the gravy pan.

Then, on that fateful day, during clean-up time, I lost in seconds the honor it took me years to earn. The cleanup ritual began like any other year. We moved like sluggish zombies after a feed. My older sister stood at the sink, muttering Idaho-grown oaths like, “Great Grandma Grunt, what a freaking mess.” My older brother painstakingly picked the meat off the turkey, humming one of his original tunes.

I picked up the Gravy pan with both hands, scraping it into a plastic container. I put the pan in the sink.

My sister screamed. “What are you doing?” She snatched the pan out of the dishwater, but it was too late. Soapy water had mixed with the precious nectar left in the pan. Dread slapped me like a wet dishtowel. I had wasted three to four tablespoons of Gravy.

The kitchen turned deathly still, all eyes boring into me. I backed against the counter.

“Why?” My brother eyed me accusingly. “Why have you done this…heinous thing?”

We stood in this shameful tableau; the weight of their disappointment fell on me like a bad cake. I hung my head in shame—Gravy Shame.

“I couldn’t help it,” I squeaked. “I am made stupid by piggery.”

They didn’t disagree.

“I’m sorry,” I gulped.

Mom shook her head. “Sorry doesn’t bring the Gravy back.”

How would I ever be able to escape this shame spiral? Would my family ever forgive me? Most importantly, would I still be allowed pie?

I kneeled and grabbed my mother’s apron. “I do so swear, dear Goddess, I will never waste Gravy again. I will not leave one iota of that sacred nectar in the pan. I will lick that pan clean if it will win your sweet forgiveness. Please, I beg of you, for I am sore ashamed.”

My mom touched the top of my head and looked kindly upon me. “I see that you are sincere, and I will ponder the matter. Get up," she commanded. “There is still work to be done.”

I let out a breath. I would eventually be forgiven.

The years have gone by, and still I wonder: would I ever regain my ancestors’ esteem? Would this be the year that I am allowed to touch the gravy pan?

On the other hand, that’s one less pan to wash…