By Linda Ball
My maternal grandmother was largely responsible for keeping me alive despite my childhood dietary foibles as well as looking after me after school for the first few grades and sewing almost all my clothing.
As a child, I mostly wanted to eat cheese, lunch meat, white bread, and potato chips accompanied by sweet sodas and followed by uncomplicated candy. Turkey and chicken were acceptable.
Grandmother DeArmond (we called her Deedy) did not have any of that on hand as a rule. She fed me roast chicken, sometimes with giblet gravy and maybe potatoes. She made warm chocolate syrup and poured it over Rice Crispies to get me to eat cereal with milk. I didn’t really like cold milk. I would drink it still warm from the cow after my mother had strained and bottled it. I didn’t like any produce except potatoes and maybe carrots.
How did I become the person who loves organ meats, new flavors, wonderful breads, and every item of produce imaginable? A self-styled gourmet seeking Michelin stars because the designations promise new ways to experience all sorts of food.
I think it was at the Thanksgiving table (repeated at Christmas) where Deedy enhanced my plain fare with a hint of the rich world of savory spices and organ meats. These meals nudged me away from my awful ultra-processed desires, and I became a full-blown ecumenical eater.
I am sure the groaning board at these holiday affairs had some green beans and other vegetables and a can-shaped blob of cranberry “sauce.” In the holiday spirit, I was allowed to ignore them without much fuss.
The turkey was cooked to perfection. I preferred white meat, but Dad, who was usually the carver, tried to give me some dark meat, which I now prefer. Deedy generally cooked chickens she raised in the yard, but this bird was doubtless from the grocery store. The giblets—gizzard, heart, liver, neck—were inside the cavity. She used these and added boiled eggs, drippings, and stock to make giblet gravy. She made yeast-risen dough and made endless amounts of dinner rolls and cinnamon rolls. There were mashed potatoes with real butter (made by my mother when I was small) and cream. The cornbread dressing was always perfect, the amount of cornbread, stale bread, celery, onions and spices producing something savory but not overwhelmed by spice and onion that might turn the picky eater away.
The hot, slightly sweet, rolls, the dressing, the turkey, and the mashed potatoes all got a large dose of the giblet gravy on my plate. That organ meat flavoring made an impression on my palate, expanding my idea of tasty and edible. The cream and butter, the spices, celery, and onion sent me on a new path. I ate a lot at that meal despite the lack of healthy vegetables, satisfying my loved ones who despaired of getting me to eat anything but soda, candy, snacks and cheese.
But there was always room for a giant, luscious cinnamon roll with the perfect dough and just the right amount of sugar, butter and cinnamon. Maybe more than one.
If I were offered those rolls, dressing, and that magic giblet gravy from Deedy’s table today, I might prefer them to seared foie gras or a caviar service. I have yet to find that taste memory duplicated.
