Gramma had to leave for a few days to help out with some family matters. Pennsylvania Dutch families are extensive and when someone needs help, they get it in spades. She left clear instructions on meals and clean up for the family while she was gone. It fell to Betty Lou, then barely a teenager, to run the house and fix the meals. When asked if she was up to it, she responded with her trademark enthusiasm...no matter what she was really thinking.
The first evening meal was a challenge. Her father and two of her brothers were hard working men and expected a hearty dinner when they got home. Betty Lou didn't disappoint...fried pork chops...mashed potatoes...peas from Grandpa's garden...and that heartiest of all, the milk gravy made from the drippins in the pork chop skillet. She had watched Gramma do this so many times she had it down pat, even getting the timing right and putting it all on the table at the same time as the hungry male folks sat down from washing up. She beamed as they all looked the table over, sniffing and "mmmmm"ing.
Grandpa asked Dude to say Grace then stabbed a couple of chops. Grandpa always got each plate first then passed it along...he commented on the potatoes being just as creamy as Gramma's...the peas were fresh and had that garden smell...he slid the gravy bowl over to his plate and pulled the spoon out of the bowl. The gravy came out on the spoon...keeping the shape of the bowl...like a big gravy-sicle. Betty Lou's eyes went as big as saucers, then immediately flooded with tears...but Grandpa never flinched. He put the gravy back in the bowl...sending just the slightest glance in the direction of the boys that said "DON'T YOU DARE SAY A WORD"...took his knife and sliced off a nice piece of gravy and sat it precisely on his potatoes. He then passed the bowl to the boys with another, reinforcing glance, and said, "try some of this gravy, boys". The dinner proceeded, maybe a little quieter than normal, but then, Gramma wasn't there and she always had lots to say at dinner. Betty Lou held it in until after dinner, the men adjourned to the living room, she cleared the table then, once alone with the dishes, she bawled like a baby.
Grandpa wasn't much of a conversationalist. He enjoyed his radio programs and a glass of beer in the evening, retired early most nights. But this night he stepped into the kitchen as Betty Lou was finishing up putting things away. He told her she had done a darn good job, for a first timer, and he had really enjoyed dinner. "I think your Momma uses a little more milk in her gravy," he said, "and I believe she lets it boil a bit longer than you did." All in all, though, it was very tasty gravy...and filling.
Sufficiency is a funny word. Say it a bunch of times in a row and it just sounds wrong. It has a cool meaning, though. It means "enough...not more". Not too little, not a lot...but enough. Betty Lou's gravy didn't have sufficient milk...or boiling...to reach it's full potential. BUT...Grandpa's glances had sufficient of his Scot-Irish temper in them to silence two of the most playful Doren boys ever born. The warning was SO sufficient that not only did it not come up in conversation that night...it never came up for years after Grandpa had passed away. I heard the story the first time when I was about four years old. At a family dinner with guests, someone complimented Betty Lou on the wonderful milk gravy. She got a twinkle in her eye and smiled and told them it wasn't easy to learn the trick of getting the gravy the right consistancy. She turned to Uncle Dude and said, "Why don't you tell the story of my first attempt...you have been dying to for years." Dude laughed and said, "Okay, I guess it's safe to now."