And Gravy

Musing on food and tradition

When you say a single word to both my husband and I, we auto-fill in the next couple of words. I wonder if it works on you as well?

Biscuits

Did you add ‘and gravy’ or ‘and honey’ after that word?

I add honey to my biscuits, he wants gravy. Mostly, this about what we grew up with. I don’t think I was introduced to the concept of gravy on biscuits until I was in my late teens. He grew up with ladlefuls of milk gravy on biscuits at his grandmother’s table along with all the other farm fare intended to give the family strength to work all day every day saving the sabbath when you just did the chores. Just. Farm life is a different essay, though, one I’ve been mulling over a while now. Suffice it to say that biscuits and gravy was a staple for his Kentucky family, while my mostly-West Coast and Alaskan upbringing was fueled by scratch biscuits topped with honey, or homemade jam, or fresh berries, accompanied by a cold glassful of goat’s milk.

Both he and I spent a good portion of our childhoods living in houses without electricity, a privy at a discreet distance, and farm work to be done before school days. Otherwise, we were worlds apart. His world was proud Hillbillies who could trace their origins to the first twelve families to settle in the Cumberlands. Mine was the roving military brat then settling into a remote home where gardening was nearly impossible but we did it anyway to supplement hunting, fishing, trapping, and raising some of our own meat. All the milk. Even back in the eighties a gallon of milk in Tok Alaska was eight dollars. I learned to cook on an old range, and later, on wood cookstoves. I also cooked over the fire, and you can do fine biscuits in a Dutch oven nestled into a bank of coals.

Because of how I was raised, perhaps, I never learned to enjoy cooked milk, grease, and flour served on top of cooked milk, grease, and flour. His family was poor enough sausage gravy just wasn’t a thing, and to this day he doesn’t care for sausage in his gravy. Milk gravy is what he prefers. Me, I’m partial to a nice wildflower honey picked up at the local farmer’s market, since I have neither room nor inclination to keep bees here. Or jam. Looking forward very much to the garden I’m building bearing enough to start setting up canning again.

Funny, how we leave behind our childhood, only to find that we’ve come back to it in a certain age. I made him gravy, this morning, the way he likes it, salt fried into the bacon grease, then the flour to make a roux and just as the flour started to brown, stir in the milk and keep stirring until it’s very thick. He was a happy man. I had my biscuits with butter and honey and we talked about the day, and how plans were changing from the trip we’d meant to go on to staying closer to home with less stress on his body traveling. We’re full now, of memories and food and ready for the quietness of the day. Perhaps with a nap.

It’s not much trouble at all to cater to my beloved. I enjoy seeing his smile when I give him what I know he wants and will rarely ask for. We might come from different traditions, but I’ve enjoyed learning his and even attempting to capture the recipe for his gravy. Gravy doesn’t really have a recipe. It comes from the heart.