Grandma’s Top-Secret Gravy provided Thanksgiving memory to savor

Grandma was always a little devilish around her grandkids. We bring out the best in people.

Prim and proper around her children – my Mom probably never heard her mother burp – Grandma’s playful side came out at unexpected times in a family full of extroverted comedians.

As it turned out, she was also good at keeping secrets.

Grandma was raised in New York by a Belgian woman who grew up in France. Her cooking style, as a result, can be described as an odd mashup of classically French, with an influence from recipes printed on the back of American food labels.

For instance, my mom taught me to make a traditional roux for turkey soup, boiling the bones of a turkey with onion, celery and bay leaf just like her mother taught her. There are also cherished family favorite recipes that include logs of Velveeta cheese. We’re classy.

It was more than a little weird that my mom’s turkey gravy wasn’t as good as Grandma’s. While my brother and I generally preferred Grandma’s cooking just to annoy Mom – kids are great, right? – there was very little difference between their raisin bran muffins and assorted casseroles. But Mom’s gravy was just not correct.

Not that she wanted to hear about it. There were at least a couple of conversations where Mom got flustered and said loudly (never yelling) “I make it just the way she showed me. It’s exactly the same. You’re dreaming.”

For her part, Grandma demurred when the topic of gravy came up. She’d shake her head side to side, wave her right hand off to the side and quietly say she didn’t do anything different than Mom. Then, like the sly comedian she was, she would change the subject. That’s what grandparents do; change the topic when the grandkids are being annoying.

At about the age of 19, I’d had enough. I was going to watch Grandma make the Thanksgiving gravy from scratch.

In our square Minnesota kitchen, Dad dealt with the bird while Mom busily mashed potatoes and whatever else needed prepping. Grandma and I stood at the stove over the roasting pan, which was filled with drippings. We fired up the electric range, the kind with the metal circular heating elements, and set to work.

Armed with a whisk, Grandma gave the orders. We added some chicken bouillon cubes. She sprinkled in some corn starch so we didn’t get any clumps. I whisked like my life depended on it; you can’t let Grandma down. We added a little salt and a little more corn starch, as the consistency became thick and creamy. I taste-tested; it still didn’t taste quite right.

As it got close to serving time, Grandma elbowed me in the chops.

“Get the hot sauce out of the closet,” she said.

“Tabasco?” I asked, incredulous.

She just nodded back at me. Get the Tabasco. Three quick dabs of Tabasco went in, the bottle went back in the cupboard and, presto, it was Grandma’s gravy.

Not that she’d admit to it. I triumphantly informed the table of my discovery but she still shook her head side to side, waved her right hand and tried to change the topic. But the jig was up.

The secret wasn’t the spice or the heat of the Tabasco, which you can’t taste in the gravy. An executive chef once told me the secret was the vinegar, which breaks up the gravy and brings out the flavor.

This will be the 15th Thanksgiving in a row I’ve made Grandma’s Top-Secret Gravy. I make it totally differently, using cream of chicken soup to deliver a more reliable texture and taste. Grandma wouldn’t fuss about that. Whatever works, she’d say.

This story was originally published November 25, 2019 at 4:00 AM with the headline "Grandma’s Top-Secret Gravy provided Thanksgiving memory to savor."