The holiday season is coming soon. Leaves falling, snow brewing, sniffles setting in. It’s not for the setting of the sun, but the scent on the breeze. Do you catch it? Cloves, porridge, mashed potatoes…

Thanksgiving came first, and my mother had a longstanding pride in our family. There was no gravy like that which she toiled over. It took weeks; sometimes even months to conjure up what that bogwoman could consider a “passable gravy”. For those who knew her, though? It wasn’t your average smile she gave when she served up this heaven-sent harmony of seasons. It was a full-bodied ease.

She knew that with each day she spent boiling down the stock for her gravy, she could distill the very emotions of the sleeping forest as it drifted away. No, this forest-found fidgeter fussed fiercely. As those leaves fell, time ticket away. Each day, the stock thickened. The bones from past meals, the fats from used skillets. With each passing sun, she shared one more sit-down dinner with the aromatic animal she raised.

It was by this method. It was by the sharing of warmth and family that the liquid grew from a watery mess to the gravy we craved. How else could one celebrate the holiday to give thanks, but by raising a meal on the very same ideal.

By the time we had gathered around the table, the old woman having sit down by my father’s side, I would have the privilege to deliver her pride. Her efforts. Our gravy. Because no matter how many delicious dishes she could conjure, in her heart we were the gravy. I’m blessed for having known her, and for having a family meal aspiration.