Gra-vy: noun 1:a sauce made from the thickened and seasoned juices of cooked meat. 2.something additional or unexpected that is pleasing or valuable.
--Merriam Webster’s Dictionary
It comes to mind that most of my childhood meals were very dry. My mother was a great homemaker and our family did enjoy her “from scratch” dishes, though most fell under the heading “B.C.” -- Burnt Cookery. It was not any more appetizing than it sounds.
Pepper steak from the Westinghouse electric wok was my favorite. Never a fan of nightshades, I couldn’t handle the peppers and cared less for the onions, but the thin slices of tender beef soaked through and through with salty teriyaki sauce was right on the money. Come to think of it, that may have been the only dish in her repertoire where sauce was fundamental to the recipe, not optional. She may have had a moral issue with gravy, akin to the sacrilege of putting ketchup on steak. Quite possibly, she wanted one less pot to clean. Either way, we never got it.
Every Friday night, year in and year out, was the traditional roasted chicken meal. One night, though, after seeing that the white meat was parched to the wishbone and gravy wasn’t being served à la carte, I decided to challenge the powers that be.
“Can we vote on it?” I asked my parents, regarding the weekly poultry ritual.
“No, there’ll be no voting in this house!” barked my father, with the ultimate voice of authority.
“Some families take votes,” I murmured quietly into my fork.
“Are you under the impression that this house is a democracy?” he said, raised his lung power. My mother was silent when Dad was about to rage. Even my sister knew enough to keep her mouth shut. I, on the other hand, always took the bait.
“Yes,” I said. (Wrong answer.)
He hunched his shoulders menacingly. “This is not a democracy,” he said slapping down his drumstick,” his dark eyes sparked with fire. “This is a dictatorship!” That was just too complex a statement to be easily answered or solved by a ten-year-old. “What do you think of that?” he asked.
“I don’t like it,” I said. I was definitely flirting with disaster.
My sister slouched inconspicuously into her chair, feeling a victim of circumstance. There were six chairs at our kitchen table, and only four of us. Lisa always set the dishes and, with artful subtlety, placed me right next to Dad. Her plate at the other end of the table made her so close, yet so far away. Oh, there were times when I’d undo her clever handiwork and slide my place setting next to hers. But, miraculously, as we all sat down, my dish was back in its original position. Damn, she was good, always employing me as interference to the striking range.
“If you don’t like it, leave!” was his familiar retort. The Hobson principle, of apparent free choice offering no real alternative, was my father’s standard. “You’ll take what’s given to you, or have nothing at all!”
To present a counterargument would have gotten me kicked out of the kitchen, and surmising that my options were as limited as the dinner menu, I replied simply, “Dibs on the dark meat.”
Pepper Steak
1 1/4 cups beef broth, divided
1/4 cup soy sauce
1 1/4 teaspoons ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1/2 cup thinly sliced mild onions
1 (1 1/2 pound) boneless round steak, cut into strips
1 garlic cloves, minced
1/4 cup olive or vegetable oil
4 medium green bell peppers, cut into julienne strips
2 large tomatoes, peeled and chopped
3 tablespoons cornstarch
Hot cooked rice
Directions:
1. In a small bowl, combine 3/4 cup of the broth, soy sauce, ginger, sugar and pepper; set aside.
2. In a skillet or electric wok over medium-high heat, brown beef and garlic in oil.
3. Add peppers and tomatoes. Cook and stir until peppers are crisp-tender, about 3 minutes.
4. Stir the soy sauce mixture and add to pan. Cover and cook until the meat is tender, about 15 minutes.
5. Combine cornstarch with the remaining broth until smooth; add to pan. Bring to a boil; cook and stir for 2 minutes.
6. Serve over rice.
