Gravy has this… uncanny way of worming itself into a meal, doesn’t it? You think you’re in control, but then—there it is, pooling quietly at the edges of your plate, waiting. It doesn’t demand attention right away, but somehow, you can’t ignore it. It clings to everything it touches with a mighty grip. Take mashed potatoes, for instance. On their own, they’re just mashed potatoes. But with gravy? Suddenly, they’re transformed into something richer, darker, something better. It’s like they’ve been whispering secrets to the void, and gravy is the translator.
The texture is what really gets you. It’s smooth, sure, but not too thin. Not one of those sauces that just slips off and disappears. No, gravy sticks. It coats your food like it belongs there, hugging every nook and cranny. Dip a fry into it, and it clings like it never wants to let go. Run your finger through it, and it leaves traces behind, sticky, velvety traces that stay with you. It’s the kind of texture that feels alive, like it knows exactly where it’s needed. There’s something oddly satisfying about how it relaxes itself over everything, turning even the most ordinary foods into something special. It’s rich but not overwhelming, comforting, not excessive. The way it moves is almost hypnotic, gliding across surfaces with a quiet confidence that says, “I’m here now.”
“Gravy?” I ask a fellow peer.
“Huh?” He responds, “who are you?” Even the students are just marveled by the beauty of this magnificent beast. “Can you stop staring at me?”
And then there’s the way it sneaks into places you didn’t even realize needed help. Ever had dry turkey or chicken? A ladle of gravy fixes that in seconds, seeping into cracks and crevices like it’s on a mission. Even stuffing, which can sometimes feel a little bland, gets a second life when drenched in that silky goodness. Breakfast isn’t safe from its influence either; gravy poured over flaky biscuits is practically a religious experience. It’s not just food, it’s magic. Gravy binds things together in ways you don’t expect, creates calm and silence in our chaotic world.
Is it comforting or slightly unsettling how much better things taste when it’s around? Maybe both. Whatever it is, one thing’s certain: once you let gravy in, there’s no going back. It’s the kind of presence that lingers, not just on your plate, but in your memory, on your tongue. You might not think about it all the time, but when it’s missing, you notice it, you yearn for it. And when it’s there, it’s impossible to resist, impossible to take your eyes off.
“Have you ever been to a Swiss Chalet?” I asked a random woman I met on the street.
“Yea, it’s a very nice place. My dad works there,” she looked confused, probably wondering why I’m covered in gravy.
“Do you like the Chalet sauce?”
“Yeah, I like it.”
“Pathetic.”
THE NORTH STAR 