by Tana Tymesen

Friendsgiving Pajama Jam, brought to you by the proprietor of Chateau de K, John K., will take place this year in a charming, cozy pre-war apartment in Jackson Heights with in-wall bookcases and plush couches. John works in television, and his girlfriend Monique, my best friend, and the dinner’s co-host, is a candymaker. Monique and I live together a few blocks away at Penthouse at The Burrow. We nickname our domiciles. It’s festive. The party this year mandates comfort. Why do people dress up just to cook and eat and argue with their relatives when we can cook and eat and drink and with our friends in flannel pajama sets and animal-themed onesies?

Joining me at the Chateau are our friends Steve, Sushie and Sammi. We’re all professionals ranging among the spectrum of our 30s. The alliteration wasn’t planned, but is nonetheless welcome. We’re a motley little group cobbled together, as happens in New York City, from lifelong friendships, random happenstance and The Public Theater. Wherever we’ve come from and whatever we’ve been through, it’s a relief to know that we can find kinship in each other.

I love these people and they are my family. My other family, the one conferred upon me by fate and DNA, hails from Wisconsin. To quell my homesickness on Thanksgiving, I always try to include a piece of my Midwest — specifically, gravy.

“I’m not a fan of gravy in a jar.”

Look, I get it. Jarred gravy is kind of a goopy thing loaded with salt. But homemade gravy? From pan drippings? It’s so easy, and there’s really no substitute.

So, okay, “it’s so easy” — there is also the potential the gravy-making process will go horribly wrong. One of my earliest memories is of my mom, standing in front of the stove, staring perplexed into a Tupperware cup full of cornstarch dissolved into cold water, wondering why she couldn’t convert that and a pan of drippings into a gravy I would eat. Her Grandma Mabel always made it look so easy.

My great-grandpa used to eat leftover gravy on slices of white bread, days after the last of the turkey was gone. I didn’t consider until much later that a meal of gravy bread was probably also a byproduct of Depression-era eating, and before that, growing up very poor. Besides that, it’s a fabulous use of both gravy and bread.

 

For gravy you’ll want to spread on everything, here’s what you do: take the pan drippings from whatever meat you’re making, and transfer as much of them as possible to a saucepan. In a measuring cup, whisk 4T of cornstarch into a half cup (4 oz.) of cold water. Turn the stove to medium heat and bring the pan drippings to a boil.

Add a few pinches of kosher salt and fresh ground pepper, if you have it.

Once the drippings are boiling, add some herbs, if you have them on hand from your other cooking. Rosemary would be nice (but chop it up finely); thyme is almost always a winner, too. Fresh herbs are stronger than dried, so if you’re unsure of your amounts, start small and taste your way up.

Pour about 1/3 of the cornstarch mix slowly into the drippings (I like a thin stream), whisking briskly.

 

One year, my grandma let me help with the gravy under the condition I stand at the stove and whisk and whisk “for at least five minutes.” After probably two and a half minutes I asked if that was enough. “Well,” she started, already knowing the answer. “Does it look thick enough?”

“Holy hell,” I thought. “I don’t know! What does it look like when it’s thick?” I said that out loud and she pressed me. Afraid of ruining my favorite part of the meal and of disappointing her exacting nature, I became defensive. Before I knew it we were bickering about viscosity — while I continued to whisk.

Don’t do this. You know what thick gravy looks like. It doesn’t look like a river of greasy pan drippings, for one. It looks like a viscous, substantial, light brown sauce. Have confidence in yourself and your abilities!

But this is how we cooked. She was once a chef at a well-known supper club, her mother was an excellent cook, and her grandmother had run a farmhouse with four kids on freshly-settled land. My grandma knew from experience and, for my part, I’ve never met an authority figure with whom I wouldn’t butt heads. We fought over chocolate chip cookie measurements, over the diameter of gingersnap balls, over the exact second I should take toasting bratwurst buns out of the broiler. When two intelligent Virgos are in the kitchen together, there are bound to be some hurt feelings. Cooking with Grams was usually intense and exasperating, and yet it was one of my favorite things to do with her. She died in June, and I miss her every day.

Grams and I were last together for the holiday in 2011, in Coeur D’Alene, Idaho, where my uncle (her son) lives with his family. It was idyllic; My aunt and uncle still owned their house “in town” and a couple feet of snow covered their lawn. Fires glowed warm and bright and contained in the stone-framed fireplace, and the Packers beat the Bears on Thanksgiving.

Since then, Grams spent winters in Yuma, Arizona with her boyfriend. We’d get group texts: “Hello family beautiful day in AZ lots of sun dinner with neighbors and then Christmas carolling [sic] in Santa hats what fun love you happy thanksgiving.”

One of the most difficult elements to come to terms with has been not getting these texts anymore. I haven’t been able to delete them from my phone. I can’t take her number out of Favorites, but every time her name or picture pops up, there’s a tiny moment of cognitive dissonance. Like nothing’s different, like she’s still here. And when I remember, again, my breath catches in my throat. Sometimes I can breathe through the tears I feel welling, and others they come on too quickly to stop.

 

Keep an eye on this drippings-corn starch affair, whisking along while the liquid boils. Make sure to scrape the bottom and whisk all around. Don’t adjust the heat. If a few minutes go by and it doesn’t seem to be thickening up, add a little more of your cornstarch mixture. After 4-5 minutes, look at a spoonful of its texture by letting it run/drip back into the pan. Does its thickness work for you? If it’s too thin, add more of your starch mixture and boil a little while longer. If it’s too thick, go ahead and add a little water. And REMEMBER: it’s going to thicken more once it’s cooled.

Give it a taste for seasonings. Do you need more salt? Add it now. If you don’t trust your palate, ask a friend what’s missing. I have a weird nose thing and don’t smell very well, which can affect the amount of seasoning I think something needs or whether I pick up on subtler flavors. I nearly always ask someone around me (usually my best friend, since we cook together) to give it a taste and let me know whether the salt is okay, or what that missing level of flavor is. A wee bit of collaboration goes a long way.

Turn off the heat and, if you have your wits about you enough to have a gravy separator, pour your gravy into that to skim off the fat (NOTE: procure a gravy separator before Thanksgiving day). From the separator, pour the gravy into a deep bowl or boat and serve to your people.

 

Grams took umbrage, for a long time, that I would spend holidays with people who weren’t family members and hearing the pain and abandonment in her voice when I told her I wasn’t coming home still stings. This year, I’m more grateful than ever for Friendsgiving. The more drunk and distracted and laughing I am, the less time I have to concentrate on the fact that her group text isn’t coming, that she won’t have hijinks to tell me about over the weekend. I’ve gotten past devastation, but just barely.

Speaking of drunk…

Now that we have the most important part out of the way, let’s talk about Friendsgiving beverages. It is very easy to bring a bottle of wine and call it a day, but why not surprise the group with something new — something vintage?

By the time I came along, my mother’s Lutheran family wasn’t drinking so much — a history of alcoholism will do that to people. Twice a year, though, they threw caution to the wind, and on Thanksgiving and Christmas nothing said “it’s freezing in the rural Midwest, but we are here to PARTY” like the Tom & Jerry.

Plenty of adults in Wisconsin shared their beers with me when I was still a tot, but my mother’s side of the family was less generous (see: alcoholism) and I was 19 before my lips tasted a T & J. It was a unique experience, but it really is hard to go wrong with hot rum…and eggs. Yes. Rum and eggs. Like I said, PARTY.

6 eggs, separated

1 lb superfine (white) sugar

Rum and Brandy*

Hot water

Beat the egg yolks. Add half the sugar and beat** until well-combined. Add the remainder of the sugar and beat until it’s gone. Add a shot of rum to the egg yolks, and mix. Add in 1/4 tsp each of cinnamon and nutmeg. In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites until they form stiff peaks. Fold the whites into the yolks. This is your batter.

Pour warmed rum and/or brandy into each serving glass. Grams’ recipe calls for a shot, but feel free to eyeball that and adjust to taste or level of disillusionment with the government and American people. Top the liquor with a heaping spoonful or two of batter and stir. Fill the remainder of the glass with hot water and sprinkle nutmeg on top. Serve. Cover and refrigerate the batter between rounds. And try not to polish off those bottles of rum and brandy. Or if it’s been a rough week, do you, boo boo.

 

My therapist mentioned this week that she’s spoken to many clients who will not be spending the holiday with their families this year due to political differences. Wherever you go, however you are celebrating, love on the people around you. It might be difficult, and if you’re like me, it might get  awkward when you try to tell that aunt who’s never worked a day in her life that even though she voted “on economics,” she still voted to condone racism, misogyny and xenophobia (to name a few).

But our families aren’t only from blood. So if you’re with friends, maybe in plaid pajama sets and animal-themed onesies, revel in their company, and in the unique character each person brings into your group. Laugh, sip, nibble and nap, and be thankful that if nothing else, we live in a country that has codified free speech and the right to protest. If nothing else, we have the First Amendment on our side.

Use your voice.

Do not keep calm.

Do not carry on.

Resist.  

 

*You can also use only one of each. The world is your oyster!

**Beating by hand and a little unsure of yourself? Try this tutorial. Using a mixer? Check out this one.

***For an example of how to fold, see this handy how-to.

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Tana Tymesen is a writer and editor from the Midwest and both coasts. Her self-care includes long drives through rural Wisconsin, Instagrams of piglets, cheeses, and Bob’s Burgers. You can find more of her writing at tangentsandangles.com.