The Alchemy of Gravy...

 

It's Father's Day. That means a celebratory breakfast of sausage, biscuits, and gravy. It is a little family tradition that we all enjoy. I was raised in New England and never heard of having gravy for breakfast. At our house, gravy was reserved for Thanksgiving and Christmas and for supper meats like turkey or roast beef. My mother made gravy, but I don't recall if she did it from scratch or used a mix. 

When I married a man from Tennessee, I was introduced to the popular southern breakfast where sausage is cooked, gravy is made from its drippings, and meat and sauce are wed to hot, golden biscuits. It didn't take me long to become a fan. Since the meal is not exactly health food, we only have it on special occasions. 

I stood at the stove this morning while the sausage was fried in the cast iron skillet. I made a pot of coffee, got out my favorite biscuit recipe, and stirred up the dough. I didn't have to think hard when I made the gravy, but that was not always true. As a young bride, I didn't have a clue how to make the stuff, and I'd have a nerve attack any time it was on the menu. I read many recipes, and when we moved to Memphis, I would ask the older ladies in our neighborhood for tips. With trial and error, I finally mastered my own version of sausage gravy, which I trot out for Father's Day, birthdays, and sometimes Christmas. 

After browning the sausage patties, I lay them on a layer of paper towels to wait while I make magic happen. The skillet, coated with sausage crumbles and grease, is deglazed with white wine. This is my own addition to the process. I scrape up all the crispy bits and simmer this down. I add a little butter because the sausage we use is relatively lean. Next, I toss in some flour, just enough to absorb all the liquid and make an odd-looking paste. I add a little salt shaken into my palm and lots of fresh cracked black pepper. No measuring cups or spoons are used. I let the flour cook a little, browning it a bit. A generous pour of milk comes next. 

Now is when doubt hits every time because, looking in the pan, I see a mess. Odd clumps of brown flour, muddied milk, it can't be right. I take a leap of faith and stir it all up with a whisk. While the heat from the burner flame spreads up through the iron skillet, I stir and stir, and suddenly the ingredients are conjured into an entirely new substance. The flour and seasonings meld with the milk and, in a happy instant, become thick, creamy, and glossy. Fragrant steam rises to fog my glasses as I taste, add more pepper, and taste again. I add a dash of Worcestershire sauce for a little extra gusto. With some skill and luck, the timer telling me that the biscuits are ready chimes in, and I call the family to breakfast. 

The group around the table becomes quiet as everyone takes the first bite. Then chatter resumes, silverware clinks on dishes, and finally, the last crumbs of biscuits sop up the last drops of gravy. There are satisfied sighs all around. Shared meal magic, sauced up with some gravy alchemy.