In which I make gravy.

 photo from middlezonemusings.com

Its 630 pm.  Husband will be home in an hour.  I don't want to make dinner.

"but it will be the 3rd night in a row that you haven't" whispers that pesky voice in my head.

Oh hush!  says I.  I had a long day.

"no, you didn't."  Says that voice.  And you know what?  It's right.

I didn't make the house nice today.  I made breakfast and lunch for the kids, but didn't clean up behind myself.  I did school with the bigs but didn't read a bible story to my littles.  The laundry that was waiting to be folded this morning hasn't budged, and certainly hasn't folded itself.

I played online.  I read a chapter in a book.  I talked on the phone.  I even took a short nap.

I was lazy.

I could call my husband right now, tell him to pick up a pizza or something on the way home.  And he wouldn't say a word.  He'd come home and put the pizza on the table and give me a hug and kiss and ignore the mess like he always does.  He wouldn't ask me what I did all day, or why there was no dinner.  He'd ignore the laundry basket.

Oh, that husband.  I don't deserve him.  He gets up every day and gets himself dressed as best he can and never says a word about me standing in the kitchen, still in my bathrobe as he leaves the house.

We made this pact so many years ago and he keeps faithful, going to work each day to provide for our crew and me, rain or shine, sickness or health.  And day after day I fail to keep up my side of the bargain: Keep house.  Cook.  Laundry.  Raise Children.  And day after day, he never says a word about it.  Nothing against me, not one word.

And while I'm thinking it all out, standing in my kitchen with phone in hand, so tempted to call the pizza man but knowing, knowing that I need to do something different - an idea comes to me.

And that idea's name is gravy.

I don't know how to make gravy.  Not really.  I get by with making my mashed potatoes "garlic" so they don't need gravy.  But my southern man with the Nan who cooks like a master, he loves gravy.  He'd eat it on anything.

There is chicken that can be baked quickly, easily.  I hate cooking in a dirty kitchen but it can't be helped.  I throw the chicken breasts in a pan, drizzle some oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper and slide them in the oven.  And now its the potatoes turn, chop chop, in the pot, water, salt, set to boil.  And oh vegetables, these frozen peas will have to do - its all there is.  Give the baby two to chew on and put the rest in a bowl, microwave to steam.

I take the chicken out and look dubiously at the drippings in the pan.  It can't possibly be that hard, can it?

Somehow, I make the gravy.  At least, it looks somewhat like gravy.  And it even tastes somewhat like gravy.

He might not notice.  He probably won't care.  He'd be fine with pizza or ramen noodles and would love me still even if I never cooked again.

No, I don't deserve that hard working, strong and silent man of mine.

But tonight, I made him gravy.  Because that's what you do when you're in love.