I pictured gravy as a bonus check:
a neat envelope of joy, a tidy stack of respect.
Instead it’s a beast: brown, sly, and wild,
lurking behind my oven like a mischievous child.
I pour the drippings, whisk with all my might,
it hisses, bubbles, then takes flight!
Brown specks rain like meteors on the floor,
the cat slinks by, unimpressed once more.
My tidy bonus dreams? Gone up in steam,
replaced with sticky, slap stick, savory cream.
Gravy demands fingers, attention, and pride,
not envelopes of money you tuck inside.
So I lift my ladle in salute to the mess:
mashed potato isles and brown river press.
May your disasters be hot, your kitchen run wild,
may gravy embrace you like a naughty child.
And when someone asks about your holiday pay,
point to the floor, the walls, the dog at play.
Whisper with glee, that mischievous wave:
“The gravy’s richer than any paycheck I save.”
INSTANT NOODLES 