If you have ever made gravy, then you know what a delicate process it is to ensure that it is the right consistency, flavor and texture. If impatient, one can produce a pretty wretched goo that oozes unattractively in globules across the plate. If rushed, it can taste pasty and you can find yourself chomping down on a chunk of raw flour or cornstarch. Yes, gravy is a delicacy which requires patience, constant attention, timing and the perfect balance of ingredients.
I dreamt last night that I was searching endlessly and I awoke exhausted and shivering with cold. The shivering began while I was dreaming of wading through a chest-high pool that seemed to go on for as far as I could see. The sky was crystalline clear (just as it is in reality this morning) and it was that kind of clearness that hints at bitter cold. The water, I am sure, was heated, but I could not feel the warmth. I was shivering, teeth chattering, body trembling uncontrollably. (In reality, I had kicked off all my blankets and had only a thin sheet to ward off the frigid night air.)
I continued searching. I was aching inside. Aching from the trembling and aching from the sense of lost-ness, aloneness. I was searching for my partner.
The pool was full of all of my loved ones from the past and present – family, friends, lovers, acquaintances, mentors. I searched their faces for the one I was seeking. I found the face of my first high school sweetheart and he smiled at me. I felt warm inside and realized, “There! That feeling? That is what I am looking to capture.”
But it wasn’t him I was looking for. No one in that gargantuan pool had the piece for which I was searching. None of them held the matching piece. I climbed out of the pool, tired and surprised to find that I was not wet, although I had been wading for, seemingly, all of my life.
The next thing I knew, I was in a house somewhere. Everyone from the pool was there, dry and hungry and waiting. It was time for dinner. It was my turn to make the gravy. Patiently, I stood at the stove, tapping in the flour and stirring.
Stirring.
Stirring.
Constant attention. Constant tasting. Constant motion.
I watched the gravy as I stirred it in the pan, hoping it would be just right. At first, it was lumpy and I panicked. And then, with patience, it began to take on the consistency that I was looking for and, when I tested it, the warm flavor melted upon my tongue.
I awoke, curious about the link between the two subjects of my subconscious ramblings. I lay there in the misty morning hours and decided that I have been swimming my whole life. I have looked for that perfect piece in the sea of faces of my loved ones. I have found the match, at times, but it has been fleeting. The pieces have fit, momentarily – some for longer than others – but then, one day, they just wouldn’t fit anymore.
And, truly, there hasn’t been a lot of patience in that quest. I have rushed the process, at times and have had many lumps that would not go away. I have given in before all the proper ingredients were there to make the perfect gravy. I have, in other times, poured in too much flour, too fast and turned it into a clumpy glue that clung in all the wrong places and never had hope of becoming gravy. I have even experienced what looked like a perfect gravy, but left the sulfurous taste of broken dreams and a shattered heart caked on my tongue.
I have shivered all morning long. The night coldness sank clear to my core and I have been unable to get warm. Even now, my feet are still chilled as an uncomfortable reminder of my night vision-quest. I am wishing for a homemade meal of roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy. And especially, that the gravy is perfect.
©Angie K. Millgate 12/05/06
