How I Got My Name

I Love Gravy. I love to make Gravy, I love to eat Gravy, and I love to put Gravy on just about any food with which it is served. Gravy binds together the disparate elements of any meal, it is the one common part of a meal that enhances all that it comes in contact with.

I Love To Make Gravy. I am serious about making Gravy. In a potluck situation, I always volunteer to make the Gravy, for two reasons: I love to do it, and I don't want to eat someone else's pale idea of what I know Gravy can be.

My real friends know that when I am in the kitchen, I don't like to be bothered. I don't even like anyone NEAR me in the kitchen. And this is especially true when I am Making Gravy. Gravy is serious business, because there are many steps involved in the creation of a truly savory result, any one of which can render the Gravy less than we would hope for. So much is riding on the Gravy. Expectations, expressed or not, rise and fall on the Gravy. I am judged by my Gravy. I accept this. No other person's judgement of my Gravy is harsher than my own.

One Thanksgiving, I was in the kitchen of my friend Holly's house in Seattle. This particular feast, like so many, was a potluck, with each guest contributing the dish she or he does best. Reputations were on the line here. I was at a key point in the preparation of my Smoky Sage Gravy: the blending of the long-simmered stock with the painstakingly-prepared roux. This is the key step that can, if performed by amateurs, result in lumpy gravy. There is no room for distraction or delay.

A small crowd of well-wishers was gathered around the kitchen island upon which I was performing my critical task. As I was whisking away (counter-clockwise, then clockwise), one of the group (Bob, who no longer likes me) made a remark to me which only vaguely registered with me. Gaining no response from me (I was BUSY!), he said something like, "Look at gravyboy, working hard!" And thus my proud moniker was born.