When my grandmother passed away this spring, our town lost a legend. Not just a person, but a taste — the kind of comforting, soul-hugging flavor that lived in her cooking. Her turkey dinners were a thing of myth. People would beg for invites during the holidays, and if you were lucky enough to get one, you cleared your schedule. But the crown jewel of those meals? Her gravy.
Golden, rich, velvety perfection. It didn’t just tie the plate together — it elevated the whole experience. “Better than any restaurant,” people would say. “No one makes gravy like this.” I once saw a neighbor tear up at Thanksgiving, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the emotional toast — it was the gravy.
Several years ago, after she had a heart attack, she softened a bit. Life had humbled her, and in her recovery, she invited me into the kitchen. Slowly, she started sharing her sacred recipes — the stuffing, the mashed potatoes, even her cranberry sauce from scratch. But one thing remained off-limits: the gravy. “Not yet,” she’d say with a sly smile. “Some things need to stay special.”
So when she passed, and I found myself cleaning out her pantry, I was hoping — no, praying — for a gravy-stained notecard, a scribbled recipe, something. Instead, on a shelf behind the bulk flour and her old pie tins… there it was.
A giant, industrial-sized bucket of KFC gravy mix.
At first, I stared in disbelief. Then I laughed. And then I laughed harder, through tears. She had been using KFC gravy as the base all along. Grandma, the kitchen goddess, the gravy sorceress — had been doctoring up fast-food powder to make her magic.
It was so her. Unapologetically clever. Proudly secretive. A little mischievous. And ultimately — someone who knew that it’s not about where the ingredients come from, but what you do with them.
So this Thanksgiving, I’ll be stirring a pot of KFC gravy mix with all the love and flair she used to — because sometimes, the secret isn’t in the recipe… it’s in the hands that make it special.
