“Ok, people, chop chop! We’ve only a few hours until people start showing up. You know how early Uncle Hal likes to get here, and we have no idea when the rest of the family will arrive. Where’s Gravy?”

Mom was really taking ownership of Thanksgiving this year. Made sense, given that half of the family joining us had never celebrated here before. The drive from Miami to Atlanta had always been a little too far. Until now, I guess.

“I’m here, mom!” I shouted from the other room. “Don’t even say it, I’m already makin’ the gravy!”

I still can’t believe it’s 2015 already. Hell, I can’t believe it’s almost 2016! If I’m thinking correctly, that makes it...nine years! since we first sat down together to enjoy Thanksgiving with my wife’s family. Apologies for the cliché, but it really does feel like yesterday since it all began. But more importantly, it feels like no time has passed since I was given the critical task of making the gravy.

Gravy plays such an interesting role on Thanksgiving Day. On its surface, it seems like one of the easiest parts of the whole dinner-making process. I mean, it’s just a flavorful liquid that usually has a step-by-step guide printed right on the back of the ingredients box. There’s hardly anything to it, right?

Wrong. So, so wrong. Gravy isn’t merely used to compliment a single dinner item. When most people use it, they pour it all over their entire meal. It goes well with mashed potatoes, turkey, biscuits, ham, and nearly every other part of Thanksgiving dinner. This makes it crucial to ensure the finished product is absolutely perfect. Otherwise, you’ll feel both the immediate and delayed depth of your family’s disappointment. Immediate, from the expressions on their faces, of course. But also delayed because of the thoughts that the family will share with one another behind your back, which slowly eats away at the beauty of your familial communion, like a rusty spike driven into the base of the strongest tree.

So why me? Why was I selected to be the one to make the gravy every year? I’ll never know why I was chosen for the first year, but I know the exact reason why I’ve been chosen to make it every year since. It’s because my gravy is perfect. It’s flawless. It’s the exact consistency it should be. The flavor is spot on. There’s always more than enough for everyone to enjoy it. And it’s how I got the only-during-Thanksgiving nickname, Gravy.

Mom laughed at my response. “I figured you’d be working on it already. Seems like you start working on it before you even need to!”

Needing to focus, I ended the conversation by not responding. But what she said did leave a smile on my face because unbeknownst to her, I did begin my work before Thanksgiving actually arrived. Several days before, in fact. I wafted my hand near the bowl so I could get an idea of how it was coming along and was instantly reminded that the best gravy is one that’s been marinating well before it’s expected to be eaten. It needs time for the spices to completely blend with the rest of the ingredients, which is something that you just don’t get if it’s rushed last minute. My mouth began watering. This may be the best year yet.

“Oooo, I can smell it already,” Jen said about forty minutes later to no one in particular as she took a deep breath. Her mouth started watering as well.

“Honey, can you ask your brother if he’s sure he doesn’t want to finish up out here with the rest of us? I know that he doesn’t like a crowded kitchen, but there’s plenty of room for him,” mom said to Jen.

“Heard that,” I shouted. “I’m fine, just finishing up.”

I don’t know where mom got the idea that I prefer to make the gravy in another room because I don’t like to feel too crowded. It’s true, but I’ve never told her that. I actually have a few reasons for making it in solitude, the first being that I prefer the privacy. Everyone looks forward to the gravy each year, and I feel like all eyes are on me when I make it in the kitchen. I’m already feeling enough pressure, and I don’t need even more. They’re probably just wanting to find out what my secret is anyway. Well tough, they’ll never know.

“What color did you decide on this year, Gravy?” Dad shouted.

“It’s baffling that you know he never answers that question, yet you still ask it every year,” Jen told her father, shaking her head and smiling.

Oh yeah, my second reason for making it alone: for the surprise! I don’t want to appear full of myself, but not only have I perfected brown gravy over the years, but I’ve also perfected a number of other kinds. I’m going for yellow this year (but don’t tell them yet).

Looking down, I determined that I was about halfway there. I heard a knock at the front door, then an exaggerated, “Uncle Hal!” from someone in the house. I glanced at my watch and noticed that he hadn’t arrived early this year, as we were expecting. A bead of sweat landed on the rim of the bowl as I realized that the rest of the family would be arriving any minute. I began scooping what I had made into a bigger bowl while I pushed harder to get the rest finished. More knocks on the door came and I heard the rest of the family pour into the house.

“Can’t wait to try this year’s batch of gravy. It’s been a long wait. A year, to be exact! Speaking of, where’s Gravy at?”

I think that was the voice of Aunt Mary.

“He was just coming out to greet everyone,” mom shouted down the hallway toward the room I was in.

Completely exhausted, I wiped my hole, buttoned my pants, and grabbed the bowl of what I hoped was enough fresh yellow gravy for the whole family to enjoy. It better be…I’d given everything I had.