My mother and I made a quick trip to Toronto on the weekend to celebrate a 50th wedding anniversary but we would be back home in time to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner. Once we were on our way from the airport, I phoned my husband, who was doing all the work, to ask if he wanted anything when we stopped at a grocery store in Elmsdale.
"Another pound of butter would be good," he replied. "And mushroom soup."
Knowing the soup was for his gravy, I asked, "Do you want me to make my gravy?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "I like your gravy better than mine."
I only discovered last spring that I make a good gravy. I was putting together a roast beef dinner to take down to my in-laws and since my husband wasn't around, I asked Mum how to make gravy.
So as as my mother and I walked into the grocery store, I said to her, "You know, you could make the gravy. It's really yours. You taught me how to make it."
"Actually, it's Grandma's gravy. I learned it from your father."
I laughed. "We don't have a gravy train. We have a gravy tree."