Sunday Gravy
Channeling the Spirit of the Italian-American Grandma I’d Like to Become
With this languid weekend endeavor
When my wife was pregnant, she didn’t have any crazy food cravings. This was deeply disappointing, not only because it shook my previously unswerving faith in the accuracy of romantic comedies, but because it obviated the only useful skill that I brought to the table as an expectant dad: on-demand cooking. Let’s be serious: Rigorously tracking the week-to-week development of our kid-to-be was never really going to be my thing (I made it 60 percent through my baby audiobook before I got too bored). But whipping up pickle, mayo, and peanut butter quesadillas at 3 a.m. because “I’M STARVING AND PREGNANT AND THAT’S WHAT I FUCKING WANT!”? I was born for that.
Yet to everyone’s dismay, my wife stayed cool, calm, and completely sane, and my craving catering services were never required. Needless to say, this was as emotionally taxing for me as carrying our child was for her.
So, when a friend who’s about to have her own baby told me that she had an insatiable craving for Sunday gravy, I could not have been more thrilled to get put in the game. I made this particular batch of sauce for her on Tuesday (cravings don’t wait for Sunday), but gravy is meant to be a languid…
