The Lesson in Lumpy Gravy

 I don’t completely remember the story, but I remember enough. And I remember the feelings that Thanksgiving planted deep within me.

I think I was in, maybe, sixth grade. I tried to remember given the house we lived in and that my brother hadn’t been born yet. But honestly, I don’t know – let’s say sixth grade.

My paternal grandparents had flown from the West Coast to join our small family (me and my parents) for the holiday. Most of the meal had made its way to the table, and my mother whisked the gravy like her life depended on it.

The worst had happened.

The gravy was lumpy.

My mother’s expectations for a flawless meal lay dashed upon boulders of flour bobbing in the pièce de resistance.

Despite her whisking and muttering, the gravy refused to cooperate. She snapped at everyone in the kitchen. In a last-ditch attempt, my tiny grandmother offered to help. That sent my mother careening over an emotional cliff. Her words were sharp, mean, and out of control. My grandmother nodded, fought tears, and joined the rest of us now waiting in the dining room.

We weren’t sure whether to sit or stand, so a weird hovering began while we all tried not to look at my mother. (The stove was just inside the door to the kitchen, which was at the head of the table.) And we waited.

Eventually, Mom brought the gravy boat filled with failure sauce to the table. I honestly can’t tell you if it was good or bad. I am sure it was tasty; my mom was always a good cook. We ate in awkward silence save for a few small comments as people tried to break the tension or fill the space.

I do not know the rest of the details of that day. If there were other cooking mishaps or relational issues that lit the fuse earlier in the day, I am unaware of them. Honestly, there could have been because there was a parade on TV and grandparents to play with that kept me distracted in the luxurious way kids can be on holidays.

But, now, as a wife, mom, daughter-in-law, and chief-holiday-meal-chef, I look back on that day and see how my mom’s high expectations and self-imposed drama ruined what could have been a nice meal, a lovely moment with family.

I know those expectations very, very well. I used to set high expectations and design big menus for holiday meals. Collecting requests and favorites, trying new desserts, and adding more sides to be finished in that last-minute gallop toward the table.

And it is easy to tie your expectations to the perceived success of the meal, a dish, the day. That is the sure-fire way to ruin the day for yourself (and possibly everyone else). Because stuff happens.

Sometimes, there are lumps in the gravy, or you forget to dress the salad. Or the microwave dies as you try to heat up the sides. Or you break the crystal glasses you only bring out for holidays. Or the comments from your in-laws or uncle so-and-so are too much. Or the dog projectile vomits on the rug right before company comes. Or the kids track in mud. Or you get strep throat and go to bed while 12 of your closest friends and relatives eat the dinner you prepared without you.

Because life is always lifing, and we are extra sensitive to it when we are hellbent on making anything involving holidays and family…heck involving humans….perfect.

So, how about this year you and I make a pact. We will go into the day expecting something to go sideways, and when it does we will greet it like an old friend. Oh there, you are lumpy, we were expecting you.

And in the acknowledging, we can find a way to let go. To tell ourselves that this does not ruin the day, in fact, if anything it makes the day normal. We can choose to look beyond lumpy and see the family laughing together. Appreciate the wink from a loved one across the table. Notice just how good that failure gravy actually tastes. We can hug our family and friends.

Sometimes, these mistakes and missteps become part of our family lore. Sometimes, they fade into our history. What lingers, what lasts, and lives in on is how we make people feel. And with those feelings, we win the day, write our legacy, and send waves into our children’s futures.

I wish I could go back all those decades and whisper to my mom that we love her, not the gravy. But alas…