There is a story that's been going around for about forty-eight years, and because when stories are told over and over again, some things tend to become exaggerated. The way tall tales happen. I've decided to put this story in writing to stop all the exaggerations that some of my family members tend to enjoy making and set the record straight, here and now!
Bear with me while I preface this story with how this biscuits and gravy story came to be. My mother, Bertha Lee, was a fabulous cook, and seamstress, and teacher, and on and on. One of my favorite meals that she magically concocted was chicken fried steak, biscuits, and gravy. It's one of those comfort-food meals that I remember with a happy heart and warm fuzzies.
Once I graduated from high school, got married at the ripe 'ole age of 17, and started college, it was with a great sense of anticipation that I would re-create this wonderful meal for my new husband. (My first husband for those of you who are only aware of the HansMan.)
Gary, that's his name, called while at work to ask what was for supper. I proudly told him we were having that magical meal of chicken fried steak, biscuits, and gravy.
I'm sure he envisioned those fluffy, tasty biscuits and just right creamy gravy that he had eaten at my parent's home in Antlers. And I envisioned creating them as my mom had done so many times. And each time, they were exactly, perfectly the same. E.v.e.r.y.s.i.n.g.l.e time she served them.
Mom didn't have a recipe with exact measurements. It was a pinch or this, a dash of that, a splash of the other . . . but, I had watched her so many times, I was confident of myself.
The biscuits went in first. It was my biscuit cutter's debut appearance and all twelve of the doughy little discs were perfectly shaped.
Next came the gravy . . . grease, flour, salt, pepper, and milk. How difficult could this be? As the grease heated I added what I thought was the correct amount of flour. Not.
It bubbled and began to darken just as Mom's had done. I added some salt and pepper. Then, carefully I poured in the milk. The mixture just didn't look quite the same as I had witnessed it in times past. Little 'curdles' began to appear that I smashed with the spoon. The 'curdles' were multiplying at a rapid pace. The 'gravy' was becoming quite thick, so more milk was added. As it cooked, now the mixture seemed too thin, so more flour was added. Repeat the last two steps...Repeat.
By this time my one and only skillet was brimming at the rim with a grayish-white substance that seemed to be taking on a life of its own. I grabbed the one and only saucepot in my kitchen and began dipping the 'gravy' out with a cup into it. I could hardly keep up with this ever-growing mixture of what now looked more like wallpaper glue than anything I have ever seen on top of my mother's stove.
At this point, there was a distinct 'burning' smell wafting throughout our tiny Vet Village apartment. (Durant, OK 1969) I had become so involved in what was happening on top of my stove, I had completely forgotten about 'the biscuits' baking in the oven.
I opened the oven door and a cloud of smoke filled the room. Once the air cleared, what I saw on that cookie sheet was indescribable and unidentifiable. My biscuits were not only a dark shade of brown, they were only about a half-of-an-inch thick and hard as a brick.
The 'biscuits' immediately were tossed into the trash can where they continued to smoke.
Having been preoccupied with that little disaster, I had totally forgotten about the skillet and saucepot full of . . . gravy . . . wallpaper glue that was bubbly over and onto the stovetop.
It was time for some quick decisions about what to do with 'the gravy' as Gary would be coming home soon.
I made two trips out the front door (there was only one door in our apartment) and headed to an area 'out back' that was seldom used between the two rows of apartments and dumped the concoction onto the ground.
All evidence of this disaster was gone by the time he came home . . . pans were washed, stovetop cleaned off . . . and, bologna and cheese sandwiches were on the table waiting for him.
He seemed a little perplexed and curious when he sat down to eat, then asked what happened to the chicken fried steak, biscuits, and gravy that we were supposed to have for supper.
I just nonchalantly told him I had changed my mind . . .
Fast forward two hours . . .
Our friend, Johnny, decided to come over and instead of coming through the parking lot as usual, he decided to walk through that back area between the apartments I mentioned earlier. . . where the 'gravy' had been disposed of.
He sat down on the couch, crossed his legs, and at the very same second we all noticed some huge glob of something covered in grass stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
Upon closer inspection, it was determind that the mysterious grass-covered-glob was in fact, what was meant to be gravy.
And, once Gary cleaned it off Johnny's shoe and took it to the trash can, it was there he discovered the' biscuits.'
It took a long time to live down the fact that I had successfully created bricks and mortar instead of biscuits and gravy that night.
To this day, no matter who sits down to my table to eat chicken-fried steak, biscuits, and gravy, they seem to know this story.
It's my story and I'm stickin' to it.
