If I were writing a book about my life, this chapter would be called “Gravy is Stupid” (even though we don’t say that. But it is. Stupid.) I rarely eat meat, but am raising at least one carnivore and sleep every night with another and they both love gravy. Grant reminded me yesterday that he never got a I-get-to-pick-whatever-I-want-for-dinner-cause-it’s-my-birthday dinner, so I took his request: roast beast with gravy, potato casserole and strawberries and went to town. Except I cannot make gravy. Cannot. Make. Gravy. I have Allrecipes on my computer right here in the kitchen and have consulted it often, but the closest I can come is gravy flavored jello that falls out of the gravy boat in one gelatinous gloop while Peter and I look on in horror. Tonight it was too runny even though I followed the recipe to a t. Even with the aid of my new fat separator from a dear friend who feels my pain, but has her own issues with meat (you know who you are), I can’t do it. But I’m taking it to the mattress because the menfolk are asking for it and I like to please, so if you have any tips, pass them along. Until then…gravy is stupid.