Thursday, November 24, 2011

Hoopes Gravy

I'm not sure the origin of the Hoopes gravy. We think it started with Grandpa Hoopes' mother, Mae Eastman.


Mae's mother (Ann Harris) immigrated from Wales and settled in Brigham City. She ran a boarding house and Mae grew up cooking for all the patrons. Experts tend to agree this is where the miracle took place - although it very well could have happened with Ann back in Wales.

Sadly, I have wasted away my life never taking the pains to learn this excellent, mouth-watering gravy. Even more unfortunate, there's only 1 person left who knows how to make the gravy. My sweet Aunt Claudia.




(shown here with Our Sweetie, 2006)

So for this Thanksgiving dinner, I buckled in, made sure relatives could watch my kids for a few minutes, and I took careful, careful notes on this signature, nostalgic dish.


Here it is.


HOOPES GRAVY

1st pan -
Turkey Giblets
2 bay leaves
1/2 C sliced onions
2 celery sticks sliced
2 cloves of garlic - smashed

Boil turkey giblets in chicken broth and a little water (enough to cover giblets). Strain out everything and keep the broth. The giblets will smell SO bad...


If making potatoes, reserve 1-2 cups potato water.

Take turkey drippings and simmer in roasting pan (or regular pan) on high with giblet broth and potato water. Mix up a thick paste of flour and water in a large cup (consistency of glue). Add to the drippings and create a basic white sauce. In true Hoopes fashion, you'll need to put in loads of salt.

PS - In case you ever question if you've made too much, please refer to my Grandpa's own dinner table (look at the large bowl in the center) to understand you can never make enough of this gravy. Enjoy.




(Pictured from the front of the table back left - Claudia, Katie (Mom), Richard and Virginia (Grandma))

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Where My Thoughts Have Been

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



-Dylan Thomas-

Thursday, November 10, 2011

The Great Outdoors

This year's hunting excursion helped teach the boys some key survival skills.

#1 - Hiking AROUND the lake will take 4 times as long as you expect.


#2 - If you don't kill a deer, you have to kill something else.


#3 - When you're lost, mountain tops all look the same.


#4 - Real men don't need Plan A.