There it is, bubbling away in my grandmother’s favorite pot. She passed it down to me when I was younger. She’s also the one who taught me how to make all her favorite sauces starting with the tomato sauce on the stove. Of course, she never called it that. To her, every sauce was gravy. It didn’t matter how thick it was, gravy was gravy.
“Careful when you stir.” She always whispered as I stood by the stove. “Not too fast, not too slow. Take it from bottom to top. Make sure everything gets covered, Laila. That’s what makes a delicious meal.”
Ah, she loved everything covered in gravy. Whether it was meat or vegetables, pasta or rice, she ate everything with it. I know if she were here now, she’d be all over this new dish I’m making. It’s nothing too spectacular. It’s an adult version of Hamburger Helper only I’m using ground chicken. It’s cheesier than how she likes her sauces. Despite all that, I know she’d scarf this down if she were here right now.
“I’ll try to add some greens to this, grandma.” I hold out the parsley. “I don’t think any other vegetables will work.”
Parsley’s not a vegetable. Her voice snaps in my head. Oh, we had arguments over that too. I ultimately gave up fighting her since she refused to change her mind. I don’t have to share this with anyone. Ever since I moved into a new place, all the food I make is for myself.
Cover everything in the gravy. Make sure that pasta is cooked al dente. Not over or under.
“Yes, grandma.” I speak to her photo on the side. Strange how she’s been gone for years but her spirit lingers. In every dish I make, fancy or casual, she’s watching over me and making all her critiques. She’s the reason I cook anymore. She saved me from spending money on fast food every week. Taught me to make better versions of the things I love. As it turns out, putting a meal together is far more satisfying than forking cash over.
And you put all the gravy you want on your food. No one can tell you otherwise.
I chuckle as the sauce simmers; the pasta is cooked al dente. I cut the heat and pull the pan away as the steam floats up. Taking a few seconds to chop parsley, I let the pasta cool in the sauce before grabbing my plate.
Aren’t you forgetting someone?
Laughing to myself, I grab another plate. She still wants to be served. She can’t eat any of this, but she wants something at the table. I spoon some pasta on both plates and bring them over. Then comes the parsley on top of both along with some freshly grated parmesan. I spoon a little extra gravy onto her plate. It’s just the way she loved it.
“Happy birthday, grandma.” I take my seat at the table, digging my fork into my meal. “It’s not my best effort, but I made the gravy like you wanted it. It’s thick, warm, and gooey. Oh, and I covered every bit of pasta with it. I hope you enjoy.”
I don’t get a reply, but I don’t mind. This is our tradition every year. This is the one way I keep her alive. I cook as if she’s right there and take every lesson she taught me to heart. In the end, I come out with a great dish. I always served her a portion of what I made.
It’s always swimming in gravy.
INSTANT NOODLES 