By I turned sixty-nine today. January eighteenth. I woke at four-thirty, which is my hour, and lay in the dark thinking about the number for a moment. Sixty-nine. My father's last year. I've been carrying that fact since I was a young man, turning it over the way you turn over something that has a specific gravity and demands periodic attention. And here I am in it, feeling well, feeling more myself than I did at forty, with more to look forward to than I knew to expect.
Sarah called at eight o'clock exactly. She always calls at eight — she's been doing it since she left home, on my birthday, because eight in the morning was when I was born, on a January morning in Vermont. I said: good morning. She said: happy sixty-nine, Dad. I said: thank you. Then she said: you doing okay with it? And I said: I'm doing fine with it. She said: good. I could hear the relief in that word, which told me she'd been thinking about it too. You don't stop worrying about your parents just because they tell you there's nothing to worry about.
Carol drove over for dinner. I made roast chicken — the correct birthday dinner for a man who lives alone and cooks for himself, the thing that requires care and produces something genuinely good and is proportional to the occasion without being extravagant. Carol brought a bottle of wine she'd been keeping and we drank all of it, which is also proportional to sixty-nine. We talked about our parents, about the farm, about what Carol's going to plant in her Stowe garden this spring. The conversation of people who have known each other for sixty-nine years.
Teddy called at four. He does this every year now — the independent birthday call, his own gesture. He said: sixty-nine. I said: yes. He said: that's the one you were thinking about. I said: it is. He said: and? I said: and I'm fine. He said: good. Then: we're still doing Sunday lessons, right? I said: always. He said: good. And hung up. That was the right thing to say and he knew it and said it.
The chicken was always going to be the thing — it’s the right dinner for a man cooking for himself on an occasion that deserves care but not ceremony. What I didn’t want was to drown it in something heavy. Carol brought a good bottle of wine and we didn’t need anything rich on the plate to compete with it. This low-fat gravy does exactly what a gravy should: it collects everything the bird left behind in the pan and turns it into something that ties the whole meal together, without asking too much of you or the occasion.
Low-Fat Gravy
Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 10 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 2 cups low-sodium chicken broth
- 2 tablespoons pan drippings (fat skimmed off)
- 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
- 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
- 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
- 1/4 teaspoon onion powder
- Salt to taste
- 1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves (optional)
Instructions
- Skim the drippings. After removing the roast chicken from the pan, pour the drippings into a fat separator or a measuring cup. Let the fat rise to the top and skim it off, reserving about 2 tablespoons of the defatted drippings for flavor.
- Make a slurry. In a small bowl, whisk the flour into 1/4 cup of the cold chicken broth until completely smooth with no lumps. Set aside.
- Build the gravy. Place the roasting pan directly over medium heat on the stovetop, or use a medium saucepan. Add the defatted drippings and the remaining chicken broth. Bring to a gentle simmer, scraping up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan.
- Thicken. Whisk in the flour slurry gradually, stirring constantly. Continue to cook over medium heat for 4–5 minutes, stirring frequently, until the gravy thickens to your liking.
- Season. Add black pepper, garlic powder, onion powder, and thyme if using. Taste and adjust salt. If the gravy is too thick, add a splash more broth and stir to combine.
- Serve. Pour into a warmed gravy boat and serve immediately alongside the roast chicken.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 45 | Protein: 2g | Fat: 2g | Carbs: 5g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 210mg