The Gravy Incident

Henrietta, Texas, February, 1963: I’d been to classes in Midwestern University, but instead of coming home I’d visited with Bill and Dennis, so I’d missed supper. In some families, I suppose that would mean I didn’t get to eat, but my mother had kept food to make me a plate. Though she was a great cook, roast beef usually came out a bit dry. However, I was crazy about the rice and gravy that always rode along.

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!