Lumpy Gravy

I have never claimed to be a great cook. In fact, I would never even dare tell you that I am a decent cook. Given the choice between thawing pork chops and heading to the nearest Swiss Chalet, you can bet money that you will find me dipping my chicken in Chalet Sauce, every single time.

I have a pretty thick skin about my cooking though. I inform people of my shortcomings in the same breath that I invite them to dinner. I do my best, but following recipes was never my strong suit, and really, I am too old to change that now. I might one day have a television show based loosely on the ridiculous situations I get myself into, but there's no chance that you will ever see me on the Food Network. Though I shouldn't shout, I have recently watched episodes of both Canada's Worst Handyman as well as Canada's Worst Driver. On a side note, I am a shoe in for the Worst Driver show, and Jamie would for sure win the grand prize on the Handyman edition. But with my luck, they will start a show about Canada's Worst Cook and Daniel will thoughtfully nominate me.

His confidence in my cooking ability is pretty underwhelming. A year or so ago, we went to Burger King. Now, please don't throw Whoppers at me, but it was the first time he had ever eaten it. He had never tried the fatty, charbroiled goodness.

Well, he mistook the yummy charbroiled taste that people flock to Burger King for as burnt. So at the top of his ten year old lungs, he hollers at his father who was rearranging everything on the table and not yet paying undivided attention to him. I could not have been more thrilled than to hear him shout, "Dad, this is burnt! Who let Amy in the kitchen?"

It was one of those moments that I find myself repeating in my head, "I love my family, I love my family" while resisting the urge to throttle someone.

However, the most notorious of my kitchen disasters is my gravy. It's almost epic it's so bad. In fact, my reputation for gravy precedes me. I am positively sure that when we are invited guests, and I offer to lend a hand in the kitchen, the host has already been warned, 'Don't let her at the gravy.'

Even Jamie, who during the most trying of situations is a very supportive and loving partner can't hide his distaste for the roast dripping muck I end up with poured over lumpy mashed potatoes. His sneaky trick so that he might enjoy his hot turkey sandwiches the day after I have laboured all day in the kitchen is to stop at KFC along the way home to 'pick up fries', and then follow that up with 'while I was there, I figured I would grab some gravy too, just to save you the trouble of warming yours.'

So you can imagine my enthusiastic response this fall when I came back from Newfoundland having spent Thanksgiving at my Mothers. Daniel and Jamie wanted Thanksgiving dinner cooked. I offered to send them to the White Spot, which I happen to know serves a mean turkey dinner with all the trimmings.

That just wouldn't do.

So we went to the store, bought a bird, all the vegetables Martha Stewart insists we need, as well as the makings of stuffing and a can of cranberry sauce, because it is just not the same if you don't have the print of the can in what you are eating.

Well, ever the dutiful, if inept, cook, I rose early that morning. I made the stuffing, stuffed the turkey, put it into the oven and peeled the vegetables. I even kept the turkey wrapping that promised that following its instructions would yield 'Perfect' gravy.

I followed the directions to the letter. In fact, just so there were no distractions, I banned all spouses and children from the kitchen so I could concentrate. I boiled the giblets in a saucepan for the time suggested, with the celery, carrots and onions, just like they told me. I mixed up the flour and water, just like they told me. Then, when it was all ready to go, I combined it with the water from the vegetables, just like they told me. All I had left to do was add the thickening.

I sampled it with a spoon. It was scrumptious! I couldn't wait!

Proud as a peacock I yell into the living room about my delicious gravy. I was met with cheers that sounded like they may have had a large trace of trepidation. However, since the kitchen was a no fly zone for the last few hours, I think they may have been hoping that I had pulled it off.

Now, I would like to mention this no fly zone of mine is roughly the size of a fancy postage stamp. So when you add in the fridge, stove, counters and dishwasher, I have a working space the size of the Queen's nose and I had spent the last 5 hours in there with a roasting turkey. I felt like I might have been warmer than the bird itself.

So now I have cabbage, carrots, turnip, potatoes, pea's pudding, and stuffing to contend with. Quickly, I am out of counter space. Then I have Bridget, Daniel and Jamie complaining about starving to death to contend with. Quickly, I am out of patience.

Suddenly, I am boiling over. Just like the potatoes did 20 minutes ago.

Crash, boom, bang, go the stainless steel bowls of carrots, cabbage and turnip that no one besides me is likely to eat. Bangdyboomwhattheckgezlynamut,why did I make stuffing!? Everyone likes Stove Top and I wouldn't have just caused myself second degree burns trying to get this soggy mess out of the turkey's arse.

Then I hear the words that send me from boiling with rage to incineration every single time, floating in from the chair in front of the television.

"Amy, calm down."

Well. Let me tell you that what happened next.

As I turned around to give him that face (You know, the one that can stop a clock when your spouse makes you so angry you could clobber him the potato masher) I accidently knocked the container of gravy thickening into the roaster. The studio audience who do not live in my house but should would have heard the glub, blub, lub noise as the beautiful, tasty gravy turned into one big gelatinous lump in the bottom of the pan. It was like it formed into one solid ball, grew a face and laughed at me.

So I did it. I made fantastic gravy this past Thanksgiving. The trouble was that I was in fact the only person who got to taste the scrumdidiliumptiousnessof it.

Everyone else's tasted suspiciously like that of Colonial Saunders and his 11 herbs and spices.