by Barb Goffman
BISCUITS, CARATS, AND GRAVY
We have three big Thanksgiving traditions in my family. Everyone gathers at my house. We all hold hands when we give thanks. And we all avoid my big sister Agnes’s gravy like the plague.
Unfortunately, I can never dodge it entirely.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Dotty,” Agnes said, click-clacking into my kitchen, holding out her gravy container as if it held gold. More like mold, if this year’s version resembled last year’s. And every year’s before that.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Agnes.” I pecked her on the cheek as she handed off her creation. I set it down next to my silver gravy boat. My poor boat that everyone passed around the table each year, never actually pouring anything from it. Not that you could. Agnes used so much flour, the gravy practically stood up on its own.
“You want me to use the lower oven again this year, Dotty?” asked my brother-in-law, Fred, carrying in Agnes’s turkey.
Someone should have told that man years ago that just because it’s Thanksgiving, he doesn’t have to wear a bright orange sweater with a turkey on it. Nonetheless the same sweater. Every year.
“Sure do,” I said. “It’s already set to keep the bird warm until we sit down to eat.”
Agnes and I divvy up the cooking each Thanksgiving. Since I host, she takes on the turkey and gravy. I handle everything else. Agnes and Fred live only a few blocks away, so splitting things is easy. Quite frankly, I’d rather be in charge of the turkey and gravy, too. It’s such a shame that every year the family gets a mostly perfect meal. But I haven’t been able to figure out a kind way to keep Agnes out of the kitchen. Not yet anyway.
I heard the front door open and close again, and I stepped into the foyer. Almost the whole clan had arrived: both my girls, their husbands, and kids; my son, Michael, with his wife, Charlene, and kids; and most of the brood from Agnes’s side.
As I hugged everyone hello, I scanned my living room one more time. The maroon couch pillows were plumped and set at exactly the right angles. That tiny spot that had somehow appeared this morning on my beautiful white carpeting had been exorcized. Nice classical music provided a peaceful yet sophisticated background. And both the cornucopia on the coffee table and the pumpkin-scented candles atop the accent tables provided the perfect finishing touches.
Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.
If only things could stay like this. I tried to ignore my six-year-old grandson, Bobby, who was sitting on the arm of one of the wing chairs. The arm! Just then I noticed my granddaughter Libby had set her glass on a table without a coaster. The girl is thirteen years old. She should know better. I shot her a look. She fixed things right quick. My stars, this younger generation has no sense of propriety.
Agnes stepped into my dining room. I followed, feeling calmer. I knew this room would still be perfect, still undisturbed by others’ hands. And it was. The linen napkins were properly positioned and folded. The Waterford glasses and wine goblets were set at the correct angle to the plates. Both my china and the mahogany table underneath it shone in the light reflecting off my crystal chandelier. I sighed with happiness.
“Everything looks exceptional, Dotty, as always,” Agnes said.
“Thanks.” I nodded my head. Couldn’t help smiling. Yes, everything appeared just right.
Michael had put all three leaves into the table this morning so we could fit all twenty-four of us around it. I was pleased, even though it was going to be a pretty tight squeeze. Tight enough that my husband, Henry, sitting at the far end, wouldn’t have much room to scooch his chair back to unbutton his pants as the meal progressed. That, of course, was a plus.
I felt a tug on my arm.
“Grandmother, come see!” Bobby pulled me toward the front door. My daughter-in-law, Charlene, was taping up a sign that declared “Happy Thanksgiving” in orange and blue crayon. Beside the words was a picture of a…
“Is that a dog?” I asked, tilting my head, trying to decipher the drawing. It kind of resembled a cow crossed with a giraffe, but I guessed dog based on the long ears and tail and brown coloring.
“Yes,” Charlene said, beaming at Bobby. “He made this for you this morning. He can’t draw a turkey yet.”
I laughed. Good heavens. Claude Monet he wasn’t. But at least Bobby spelled the words correctly. And his heart was in the right place.
I leaned down and gave him a hug. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He looked slyly at his mother then back at me. “Maybe for Christmas you could give me a dog?”
I laughed some more while Charlene’s face turned red. Boy, did she have her hands full with this one. He was crafty. Had to appreciate that.
“You’ll have to talk to your mother about that,” I said.
One of my timers dinged, and I hurried off to pull a pan of biscuits from the oven while I heard Bobby say, “Can I, Mama? Please?”
A dog. Dear Lord. I shivered, thinking of the potential mess.
I’d barely set foot into my quiet kitchen before Agnes was hot on my heels. “Did you remember to set a place for Jessica?” she asked.
“Of course.” How could anyone forget the bottle-blond bimbo dating Kevin, her oldest grandchild? Last year at Thanksgiving, Jessica wore such a low-cut, tight sweater I swear Henry nearly mentioned it when he shared what he was thankful for. “It’s going to be a tight fit in there. Any more grandchildren, and we’ll have to think about setting up a children’s table, like Mother and Daddy used to do.”
“Who knows, maybe next year there’ll be great-grandchildren on the way,” Agnes said with a lilt in her voice.
I stopped short, nearly dropping the biscuits.
“Kevin has asked Jessica to marry him!” Agnes said.
Dear Lord have mercy. I was going to have to smile at that girl across my Thanksgiving table for the rest of my life. If only she didn’t always have such a vacant look in her eyes. Or could spell vacant.
“What wonderful news,” I said. “When did this happen?”
“Just last night. Don’t say anything. They’re planning to announce it during dinner. I promised Kevin he could have Mother’s engagement ring.” She fluttered her right hand. “I’m going to give it to him when they make the announcement, so he can put it on Jessica’s finger while the whole family watches.”
Mother’s engagement ring? She was going to give Mother’s two-carat, platinum-set, colorless engagement ring to that twenty-year-old, gold-digging airhead? I took a few quick breaths. I hadn’t minded when Mother left her stunning diamond ring to Agnes when she passed a few years ago. We split up the family heirlooms fairly evenly. And the oval-shaped ring looked so nice on Agnes. She had thinner fingers than Mother had, so the ring accentuated Agnes’s long, lean hands. She wore the ring on the index finger of her right hand, keeping Mother closer to her heart, according to a Jewish tradition Agnes had learned about on some cable show. I thought that was a nice sentiment, so I truly had no problem with Agnes getting Mother’s ring—until now. I’d simply never dreamed Agnes would let the ring out of the family. It should be going to a granddaughter, not a granddaughter-in-law!
“Well, isn’t that lovely,” I said, trying to keep my voice chipper and steady while I avoided Agnes’s gaze. It wouldn’t do to express my concern. Certain people would think I was jealous, when, really, I only wanted things kept proper.
I set the biscuits down on the kitchen table and examined everything on it, trying to find something to focus on instead of Agnes. I needed a distraction. The sweet potato salad looked good after chilling overnight. Next to it sat two cans—cans!— of cranberry sauce. In my house! They must be the work of my eager-beaver daughter-in-law. Charlene always meant well, but her taste certainly left something to be desired. As did her hair style. I shuddered, moving my eyes along. When I spotted my gravy boat, I had an idea. A wonderfully delicious idea.
“Agnes, give me the ring,” I said, turning toward her. “Let me shine it. It’s a little dull now. It sho
uld be perfect when Kevin gives it to Jessica.”
She smiled at me. “Oh, Dotty, you’re always so thoughtful.”
Yes. I smiled back. I was.
* * * *
About an hour later, we all sat around the dining-room table, hands clasped, sharing thanks. It was an enlightening experience, to say the least. Apparently my eleven-year-old granddaughter, Ellie, is most thankful for some singer named after carpeting. Justin Berber or something like that. I hoped I might get a more thoughtful answer from my fifteen-year-old grandson, Tim, but no. He’s most thankful for the success of the Carolina Panthers this season. Henry wasn’t much better. His lips said he’s thankful for his family, but his eyes roamed to a sweater he shouldn’t have been noticing.
Yes, Kevin and the airhead had shown up. With her breasts practically sitting on the table, she mooned at Kevin and said she was thankful for him. Nothing else. Solely him. And my idiot grand-nephew ate it up. Maybe she did love him. I hoped so. But I feared she loved our money more.
Finally we made it to Agnes, who sat to my left. She always liked giving her thanks last.
“I’m so thankful that our entire family still lives right here in Fayetteville and that we’re all close,” she said. “With the turmoil you see in the news every day, we’re so lucky to have been blessed with health and prosperity. I’m thankful to the Goodyear company for promoting Floyd and Charles again this year.” She beamed at both her sons, who are in management at the tire manufacturer.
“I’m thankful for Fred and Margaret and…” Agnes went on as she always does, naming every single member of the family. “And, finally, I’m thankful for my little sister, Dotty, who takes on the responsibility for this meal every year and who has been my best friend my whole life.”
Now she smiled at me. I took the opportunity to squeeze her hand and get a better grasp on Mother’s engagement ring.
“Agnes, you are so sweet, as always.” I slid my hand away, easily pulling the ring with me, thanks to the butter I had rubbed on the inside of the band after I shined it. “Henry, I think it’s time.”
All eyes shifted to the other end of the long table where my husband rubbed his palms together, relishing the imminent delight of carving the bird. He loved it so much you’d think he was a butcher in a prior life. Or a mass murderer. I took that opportunity to stretch my arm out over the gravy boat and drop Mother’s ring in it. The ring sank with nary a ripple.
I hated having to hide the ring in the gravy. Lord knows what might grow on it until I got the chance to fish it out, but it was the best spot. No one would find it in there. And I just had to keep it safe until Libby got married. After all, as the oldest female grandchild, the ring was rightly hers. When the time came, I’d simply find the ring under the credenza or behind the sideboard or something like that. I could explain it away.
About fifteen minutes later, after we all had finished our soup, and slices of turkey had begun making their way around the table, along with my mashed potatoes, green-bean casserole, and homemade cranberry sauce (so there, Charlene!), Agnes gasped.
“Mother’s ring!” she said. Well, screamed is more like it. My sister may be in her seventies, but she has the lungs of a choir girl. “It’s gone!”
“What do you mean, it’s gone?” Jessica screeched.
It was the first interaction she’d had with anyone but Kevin since she walked in the door. Yep, just what I thought. She wanted Kevin for the family money.
“Now, now, dear, I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” my brother-in-law, Fred, said to Agnes. “Didn’t you take it off earlier?”
Agnes rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, I took it off so Dotty could polish it. But she returned it to me, and I put it back on. I specifically remember that.”
“Well, where did that happen?” he asked.
“In the kitchen, while we were…” Agnes stopped talking. Her mouth fell open. “Oh, no.”
Oh, no, what?
“What’s the matter, Grandmother?” Kevin asked.
“I slipped the ring on while we were putting the final touches on everything,” Agnes said, waving her arm at the table. “All the food.”
I never knew silverware could make such noise. It clattered as everyone dropped their utensils. A couple of forks fell to the floor. Dang it. I’d have to get the steam cleaner out after dinner.
I put a calming hand on Agnes’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find it when we clean up. Now everybody eat up before the food gets cold.”
“Eat up?” Jessica said. “Are you crazy? Someone could swallow my ring!”
“Your ring?” Charlene and both my daughters echoed in unison.
“Yes. Kevin and I are getting engaged. He’s supposed to give me the ring tonight. It was gonna be a big surprise.” She glared at Kevin as if this were all his fault. “Do something!”
The boy looked bewildered. “Like what?”
“Like what?” Jessica said. “How ’bout like this?!” And she jammed her hands deep into the bowl of cranberry sauce sitting in front of her. The juice sloshed over the side, right onto my gleaming table. Jessica kept wiggling her hands, making a bigger and bigger mess.
Everyone sat staring at her. Finally Jessica pulled her hands from the cranberries, the sauce dripping down her arms. “It’s not in there!” With frantic eyes and literally heaving breasts, she then thrust her hands into the bowl of brussels sprouts, causing some of them to catapult out of the bowl, across the room. “Help me!” she screamed.
And Lord have mercy, everyone did. Before I could stop it, Kevin was destroying the green-bean casserole, running his hands all through it while chunks flew out—some landing in his hair. My granddaughter Ellie and grand-niece Cheryl flapped their hands through the mashed potatoes. Fred grabbed the remains of the turkey carcass and shoved his arm inside, feeling it up.
“No ring,” he called. “Just stuffing!”
Then the rest of the grandchildren got into the mix, and in moments, broccoli and honey-glazed carrots were flying through the air, hitting the walls and other members of the family.
I thought I was going to have a heart attack. Right then and there.
I stared at Henry, my hand on my chest. “Help!”
You would think that after being married to me for nearly fifty years, the man would know what I meant. That he had to stop the madness. But nooo. He joined in! He shoved his hands into my exquisite endive salad with candied pecans. Soon greens and nuts and blue-cheese dressing were soaring this way and that. And once my husband had joined in, everybody else apparently thought it was the right thing to do, too.
My older daughter slung her arm into the bowl of roasted butternut squash and parsnip soup sitting on the sideboard. Waves rolled over the side of the bowl, splashing onto the table and floor. My younger daughter dragged the scalloped sweet potatoes to her and began pulling the dish apart, bit by bit. Everywhere people were yelling about their lack of success while food was being flung about and Jessica kept shouting orders to keep looking. You couldn’t have screamed “food fight” and gotten a bigger mess.
I leaned back in my chair, breathing heavily, watching my perfect Thanksgiving dinner descend into chaos.
Even Agnes was searching the food on her plate and mine. I quickly grabbed the gravy boat and pulled it toward me, trying to shield it from the fray.
Jessica looked frantic. “Get the desserts!” she ordered, and Kevin and his brothers ran into the kitchen. In moments my peach cobbler, pumpkin pie, and apple pie made it to the table, where they all were ravaged one by one. “Where is it?” Jessica screamed. “We have to find it!”
By that point, my youngest grandsons apparently thought this was their one and only chance to make a mess at their grandmother’s house. They started throwing the biscuits at each other. One hit a glass of red wine, which sloshed down the front of Charlene’s dress. Another soared over my head and hit the oil painting of my grandfather on the wall. I hurried to straighten it—he was an Army
man and would be rolling over in his grave if he saw this bedlam. When I turned back, I watched, seemingly in slow motion, as another biscuit flew toward me. Fast and low. Near the tabletop. And then it hit the gravy boat dead on. The boat tipped, and I froze as the thick, brown gravy began oozing out, onto the table, over the edge, and onto my luxurious white carpeting.
It would never come out.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t hear anything but my own heart booming erratically in my chest. A feeling of light-headedness came over me. Lord, just take me now, I thought. This would never happen to Martha Stewart.
Then I swallowed hard and forced myself to my senses. The ring hadn’t slid out of the boat. I could buy new carpeting. All wasn’t lost. Not yet anyway.
I jumped forward, quickly righted the gravy boat, and glanced around to see if I could snag the ring without anyone noticing. Everyone remained focused on creating their own mess. Everyone but Jessica, who had moved much closer and stood staring at me, a glint in her definitely not-vacant eyes, as she held the basket of biscuits in one hand and my mud cake with white chocolate ganache in the other. She wasn’t even bothering to search the cake. She was wobbling it in her hand, letting me know plain and clear that the choice of whether the cake met my carpeting was all up to me.
“I so hope we find the ring, Aunt Dotty,” she said, her voice calm and cold. “If it’s not in the food, it must be somewhere hidden in the house. I’d hate to have to call the sheriff and report that it’s apparently been stolen by someone in the family. Larceny at Thanksgiving. How could your family ever live down the shame?”