Never has a week flown by so quickly. Determined to milk every SAHM moment, I rose this morning to immediately begin preparing a traditional country sausage-biscuit-gravy-egg breakfast extravaganza for the fam. That is, "traditional country breakfast" as in "What's that stuff, Mom?"
Those of you who drop by here regularly knew to cue the horror movie music right then, didn't you.
I shall not disappoint.
I fried the sausage all right, although I tend to "brown" food a little more than the average person, since I grew up with a father who liked everything burned. I mean burnt. Burgers on the grill weren't done until you couldn't tell the difference between the briquettes and the burgers. Ah, I can taste the carcinogens now! My dad's motto: "'Fried' is only one 'n' away from 'friend.'" OK, he didn't really say that, but, you know, it's my blog and everything, so just go with it.
So when my husband said, "You're burning the sausage," I said, "You're welcome!"
I popped the biscuits into the oven, totally remembering to pre-heat it first! (I know! It's like I should have my own cooking show or something.)
Then I removed the sausage and began preparing the gravy (which has no "e" in it, although someone paid a lot of money for that misspelling in the neon sign above.)
I couldn't remember exactly how my mom told me to do this, but I knew it had something to do with flour and milk and lumps and salt and pepper.
So I worked my magic there, finding it at once too runny and then too thick. I kept re-working my magic every other turn to get just the right consistency. You should not have to "re-work" magic, people.
Finally, I had it just right--enough milk gravy to fill a couple of plastic milk jugs and a crock pot. We could have gravy anytime we wanted from now until Christmas morning!
Everyone knows you don't just serve your food without tasting it first. My bucket-o-milk gravy was a little, oh, how shall I say it ... milkishly milk-toast bland. And white.
Fortunately, my emergency-back-up cooking instructions in my head from when I was 12 and my mom was instructing me kicked in: "Needs salt." Because if there's one thing my dad likes besides carbonized meat and potatoes, it's salt. In fact, there is a running joke that if you ask my dad if he likes a particular dish, he's liable to reply, "It's good! It's salty!" Synonyms, for sure.
So I added a coupla t's of salt and some pepper for color. Because just like in home decorating, you need at least a little bit of black in every room, or in this case, in every dish. It's what the experts call an "anchor." (I cannot believe how I must be wowing you with my SAHM cooking/decorating knowledge right now.)
So after I anchored my gravy, I added the meat bits back in and called the fam.
The dog came running.
I served up the biscuits and gravy and took orders for eggs. (I know! I was amazing.)
My son asked for a fried egg. My son got a reasonable facsimile, which I think exceeded his expectations.
My husband asked meekly, "Can you do an egg over medium?"
I snorted smugly. "Of course I can."
I could hear them eating while I was trying my second egg, but the accolades were not wafting over to my ears. In fact, compliments were not even trickling in.
Then I flipped my husband's egg over easy and broke the yolk.
"Scrambled eggs, Honey!" I called out.
It's not my fault, really. I have a funky old pock-marked Teflon skillet and an Easy Bake Oven-quality spatula. Taking those tools into account, I would say I excel at eggs.
Finally, I joined them and asked about the gravy.
"It's pretty salty," they said.
And then I tasted it again, and my tongue shriveled up and fell out.
I forgot that sausage itself has a bit of salt to it.
Only my dad could handle this kind of serious sodium.
You know it's bad when you have to change from plain "salt" to "sodium."
Suddenly my family appeared to me as a deer family at a salt lick.
Oh well. At least I can spell "gravy." And it's not like I don't have two more chances today to get an edible meal on the table.
What else do deer eat?