Months of Tuesdays have gone by, and our Chicago chapter of the THC has undergone many changes. Some have lost the sparkle for Tuesday hating, honestly believing that hating a weekday (or anything, except perhaps their own darkly reviled soul) is an unchristian thing to do. Others have polarized around the controversial Texas-vs.-Colorado debate that nobody else on earth ever heard of or cared about. Some even privately admit to loving Tuesday, thinking it’s the best thing since canned beets and leg wax. Even our illustrious president might be seen cavorting with members clearly and officially on administrative leave without pay for serious offenses such as pitying birds that are so stupid they bash themselves repeatedly into high-rise windows. In short, the local passion for Tuesday hating has indeed waned, among all but the truest believers believer.
To those other scoffers, I can only offer two fig leaves sewn together as a metaphor for your shame and separation from the truth. One, an ever-so-subtle reminder to get over yourselves – this is just a satire after all, so your token participation doesn’t really count as an abomination to the God who created Tuesdays good (even though they clearly didn’t remain that way) – and two, an uncontroversial truth I hope can truly reunite us as we seek to heal other wounds from a troublesome year: gravy. Sweet, sweet gravy.
By all means, skip Step 1
Roast chicken quarter? Cornbread stuffing? Open-faced turkey? You name it; we as Christians should put gravy on it. Some foods, falling under special kosher exception status, even have the gravy cooked right into the center of them, creating an unexpected font of every blessing. This sloppy, sliding treasure is like gold in the hand, spreading joy and goodwill withersoever it dribbles, providing the necessary mortar that holds us together as diners, as digesters, as believers, as people. Gravy gives us hope.
As official spokesperson for the Tuesday Haters Club (and also a client) I give thanks today for this precious salve, much like Jesus did when the alabaster jar was broken to anoint His feet. I trust that it will be used to bind our group together as we set aside our differences – from virulent pointless disputes to overall lackadaisicalness – for dose after dose of golden, delicious gravy. I publicly applaud our Food Service staff for making this offer so very, very bountiful indeed. May the gravy bring healing wherever it may flow.
To northern lily-livered varmints such as myself, Texas has always been a land of mythical wonder. Parched and powdered, except where oil randomly squirts out of the ground, the Lone Star State has long been a netherworld of tumbleweed, toast, and hold-’em, generally uninhabitable by humans and weak, yankee-bred cattle.