Mama was the queen of gravy making, and her gravy was scrumptious. It was perfectly seasoned, deliciously golden brown in color and clave to the palette with culinary mouthwatering thickness that could only be achieved by her skilled hands and know-how.

Her gravy-making process began with a black cast iron skillet that perched on the front burner of the stove. Through the years, the stove changed, but the black cast iron skillet didn’t. She would begin with leftover drippings from fried meat – beef, chicken or pork – that had just been coated in flour and fried crisp in hot grease. After pouring most of the grease into a jar or cup and removing the yummy fried crumbs leftover from the meat – which my sister and I would sneak and eat – she’d add the desired amount of flour to the skillet. I can envision her standing at the stove, often having one hand on her hip, stirring the heaping spoons of white goodness into the oil with patience and purpose.

It took a few minutes for the flour to start the browning process and the stirring didn’t cease until the gravy took on the perfect brown hue. Once there, she would pour the first cup of water into the hot skillet and the steam would rise as the concoction begin to bubble and cook. Once the right amount of water and a good boil were achieved, she cut the burner down and simmered the gravy to a state of perfection. The only thing left to do then, was to spoon it over rice and enjoy the homemade goodness of my mama’s hands.

I get my gravy-making skills from Mama. I’ve even taken it a step further and have a jar of brown undiluted homemade gravy ‘mix’ in my refrigerator that I keep on hand to use in gumbos, pot roasts and the like. It’s thick, golden brown and cooks up a fine gravy that makes the tastebuds dance and the rice and mashed potatoes sing. We eat it on biscuits, on light bread and anything else that needs a little culinary boost. It’s good – good gravy!

My son, Jordy, gave me a fine compliment a few Sundays ago during our weekly after church Sunday family ‘dinner’. “That was good gravy, Mama” he said. “That’s ‘Mamaw Doroto thy gravy’.”

“Mamaw Dorothy gravy.” Mama would be proud. She would be pleased to see me frying up a good porkchop, pouring off the excess grease, adding the perfect amount of flour, and browning it like she did until the brown goodness is bubbling and thickening to the perfect state.

Some things are worth carrying forward – like finely cooked gravy, precious memories and times spent together – cemented by tradition, love and family togetherness. Whether it’s piled on a biscuit, white rice or good ole mashed potatoes, it’s good – real good. It’s love in a cast iron skillet.