By Karen Friday
Southern gals know how to make gravy. It’s one of those unspoken prerequisites for coming of age in the south and getting married to a Southern guy.
Types of gravy come in the boatfuls—you’ve heard of the “gravy boat.” Red-eye gravy. Chocolate gravy. I’m referring to breakfast gravy, usually sausage-flavored, poured over piping-hot Southern biscuits.
For 20 years my husband, Mike, served as a youth pastor. He is now lead pastor of our church. Mike grew up on Southern gravy, as did I. Many of our pastor friends often discuss whether there is food in heaven and if it’s Southern favorites like pinto beans and cornbread . . . and gravy!
As a good Southern gal and pastor’s wife, I learned how to make gravy early on in our marriage. Over the years, I have made Southern gravy countless times, mostly on Saturdays. Sometimes it’s for a Southern breakfast for dinner and I’m always serving gravy on holidays. Like some restaurants that serve breakfast all day and every day, “Karen’s kitchen“ is always open for breakfast gravy.
A huge Southern breakfast on Christmas morning is a family tradition. My husband, my adult son and daughter, my son-in-law and other relatives will come to our home.
What I call “gravy trauma” occurred while making traditional gravy on one such occasion. Anyone who has made gravy can attest to the occasional splatter of grease popping out on a hand or arm. Working with a spatula for the right consistency, I had a large amount of hot floured grease land on the top side of my left hand.
An immediate, intense, severe burning sensation hit the nerve endings on my skin. Discolored in a disgusting brownish-green tint, it formed a big blister.
Karen’s kitchen would not be serving gravy that day. Instead, a nasty burn served up a relentless dose of pain.
My husband worried that I might never make gravy again, likening it to a real emergency situation.
I’m happy to report I have made gravy since the “gravy trauma.” I knew I would not come out of the ordeal physically unscathed. I would have some semblance of a scar. No hiding the scar. No camouflaging. Clothing would not cover. Cosmetics may help minimally.
The healing process took about six weeks. Today, I bear a scar on the top of my hand. Healing from an injury—even after the completed process—often leaves a mark behind, a record that something happened there.
It reminds me of a friend who bears a scar on his hand. Two scarred hands. Nails placed them there. Nails pounded into a wooden cross. Jesus’ scars on His hands, His feet, and His sword-pierced side, wounds from floggings, and stripes on his back. Why? Because something happened there.
Christ suffered excruciating pain through beatings and crucifixion, dying on a cross so we could have eternal life.
“He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5 KJV)
*This article was originally published in the WHOA Magazine for Women, Volume 4, Issue 4, October 2014: 86-87. Print.
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© 2015 by Karen Friday
April 2, 2015 at 8:00 am | Uncategorized