Our Man-in-the-middle pondering the merits of gravy
In America you can buy Thanksgiving gravy infused with cannabis which my daughter cites as one example of how gravy can enhance a meal.
โEnhance is one word for it,โ I say thinking about the havoc a dose of THC, the chemical in cannabis, might have upon Mother who loves sauces like F Scott Fitzgerald loved Gin Rickeyโs.
Weโre debating the merits of gravy because weโre planning a BBQ to celebrate my daughterโs recent graduation and the question is: should we serve gravy or not?
For many this would be a non-issue. But I am passionately anti-gravy for many reasons, the key one being that gravy obscures and overwhelms the natural taste of everything it envelops. Poured over meat, it competes with the wonderful umami taste of cooked animal flesh. Slopped over steamed vegetables, the delicate flavour of the vegetable is drowned in a meaty fluid and what is the point of producing dry, crisp roast potatoes only to soak them in a tsunami of hot, brown liquid with lumps in it like slurry from a quarry? Gravy is fog for food.
โGravy is the glue in any roast meal,โ says my daughter.
โGravy is like glue full stop,โ I reply.
โOnly if made badly. Anyway, jus is just pretentious name for the same thing,โ she quips.
โGravy is starch gelatinisation disguised behind a homely word,โ I reply.
โWhat?โ
โWhen flour is added to pan juices and heat applied the mixture thickens in a process called starch gelatinisation. Thatโs what gravy really is.โ
โYou need to spend more time thinking about more important things than gravy,โ says my daughter.
โI accept gravy is a First World problem,โ I say.
โWith you, itโs more of an OCD problem,โ says my son.
Clearly, most people wouldnโt waste three minutes of their lives, let alone thirty, debating the pros and cons of gravy. In Maslowโs hierarchy, gravy is a nice to have like self-actualisation, not a necessity like food and shelter. Nor is gravy integral to Boris Johnsonโs โBounce Backโ strategy, though I could imagine the word โjusโ being banned from all restaurant menus to send a signal to Michel Barnier we wonโt hesitate to take back control of our sauces as well as our coastal waters, if the Brexit negotiations get a little more choppy.
โSurely, itโs important for children to learn to discriminate between jus and gravy?โ I turn to my wife, whoโs been sitting quietly beside us through this debate.
โLetโs not get side-tracked,โ says my wife. โWeโve got other more important things to get on with for the BBQ. This argument about gravy is a storm in a tea-cup.โ
โYou mean storm in a gravy boat,โ I say, smiling.
โNo. I donโt,โ says my wife.
My mother perks up.
โYou used to have gravy by the bucket as a child. Virtually drank it like water, especially with the Sunday roast.โ
โReally?โ
โYes. Your brother and you loved it. We used to give you your own separate gravy boats you loved it so much. You were paranoid about peas, too.โ
โParanoid about peas? What do you mean, granny,โ says my daughter hoping her gentle question will unearth the smoking gun to give her victory over me in the case of โGravy versus Jusโ.
โIf they didnโt get exactly the same number of peas theyโd fight. The only way to stop them fighting was to count the peas onto their plates one by one until they had the exact same number. Imagine it. Literally, counting peas one by one onto their plates before we could get on with the meal.โ
โThat explains quite a lot,โ says my son.
โI was more like a dinner lady in a canteen than a proper mother,โ she continues.
This complaint reminds me of my brother licking his roast potatoes the moment my father put a plate of Sunday roast goodies in front of him to discourage me from stealing them. I suddenly remember gravy fights, messing around, the dog snaffling food as it tipped from the table.
โMy God, there arenโt many good things about getting old. But not having to deal with you and your brother fighting over peas and potatoes is one of them,โ she says.
A shroud falls on the conversation not unlike a grey leaden gravy. Mother lifts a cup to her lips with both hands and sips her tea, silent. My wife googles something, my daughter leaves the room to find her boyfriend. My son asks me a question.
โYou know all this chlorinated chicken business?โ
โThe UK / USA trade deal, you mean?โ
โYup. Do you think weโll be allowed to import cannabis gravy when itโs done?โ
โI donโt know,โ I say, while realising that in any case cannabis gravy has come fifty years too late to help my Mother stop the Sundayโs squabbles between my brother and me.
James Thellusson – Blog: Man in the Middle
Winner Sandstone Press Prize for Short Fiction (2020): An epidemic of Kindness ย