By Frank Kaiser
“We want gravy!” we’d all shout, loud as we could. We’d bang our plates and shout again, “We! Want! Gravy!”
Such whooping and hollering was all part of our family‘s holiday tradition back in the 1930s and ‘40s.
Every Thanksgiving during this time of scarcity, even hunger, my parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins would mock reality with a meal so full and delicious —some might call it intemperate — it brightened our spirits as it burdened our stomachs.
Late Thanksgiving morn, armed with covered dishes, we’d all gather at my Aunt Marion’s and Uncle Herb’s home in the section of Chicago called Edison Park.Men in the living room with stale jokes, poker, and cigars; women in the kitchen where for five hours they would gossip, laugh, and busy themselves doing the work of the gods of abundance. Anticipation ran high.
Once at the table, now burdened with a huge turkey and a cornucopia of side dishes, we would begin chanting, “We want gravy! We want gravy!”
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