The gravy still sat in an odd-shaped heavy aluminum pot on the rear of the stove. She dished up roast beef, green beans, and rice, and started to pour gravy on top, as is proper. I held up my hand.
“That gravy’s not hot,” I said. She looked at me.
“Yes, it is,” she said.
“No,” I said, shaking my head, “it’s not.”
“The gravy,” she said, “is hot.”
“No,” I insisted, “I can tell.” She paused, then pointed to the stainless steel sink beside the stove.
“Hold your finger out,” she said, “just over the sink.”
Calling her bluff, I held my finger out over the sink. She grabbed the heavy pot and moved toward my hand, then paused. I held my hand steady, looking at her.
She glanced at me, and then poured some gravy over my finger.
Ow! It was hot! It burned like crazy!