On a chilled night in January when the clouds dissipate and all dead things are visible, you will make a favorite meal, some turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes, and, of course, gravy. You will set out your favorite iron skillet and your favorite metal whisk, the flat one. It will take a thick pat of butter and three good shakes from the crumpled flour sack that will leave a white dusting on your kitchen counters and floors. The butter will bubble and sizzle until just browning and then the magic comes: the whisking of flour into hot fat. Ratios matter most here; not too much butter or flour, not too much heat or time between whisks. Next come ladlefuls of steaming broth gathered between the turkey and the roaster pan, whisked in until the roux transforms broth into thick, smooth gravy, which, served at last, is golden. You will see your grandmother’s work from your hands and you will eat, and you will eat, and eat, and eat until you are full on her love again.