The comforts of gravy -- in lean years and fat

(Dorothy Allison wrote this completely great food memory thing in the New York Times Magazine section which is called the Eat, Memory.)

Gravy is the simplest, tastiest, most memory-laden dish I know how to make: a little flour, salt and pepper, crispy bits of whatever meat anchored the meal, a couple of cups of water or milk and slow stirring to break up lumps.  That's it. It smells of home, the door locked against the night and a stillness made safe by the sound of a spoon going round in a pan.  It is anticipation, the last thing prepared before the meal comes to the table, the bowl in Mama's hand closing the day out peacefully, no matter what time came before.

My mother's gravy was a savory country gravy, heavy on the black pepper. Best of all was steak -- cube steak.  People call it country-fried steak, but Mama always called it cube steak.  She began with odd, indented slabs of cheap meat carried home from the diner where she was on her feet all day.  My sisters and I would pound the "steak" while she rested.  The little round mouth of the Coke bottle thudded into the meat over and over until each piece was not only dimpled but flattened out half again as wide as it had been.

From the New York Times 10.28.07 (you can read the whole piece on-line at the New York Times). 

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