When Aunt Calitha announced she was bringing her “special gravy,” the family grew quiet. The last time she’d cooked, Uncle Norven’s eyebrows had vanished in a mysterious beet flambé incident. Still, no one dared to stop her. Family tradition demanded that everyone bring a dish, and Calitha’s confidence was unstoppable.

She arrived two hours later, wearing gardening gloves and carrying a pot that hissed. “It’s alive with flavor,” she declared. The lid rattled. Cousin Brindle swore it growled. Grandma Frena leaned in and muttered, “That’s not flavor, that’s fermentation.”

During dinner, Calitha ladled the gravy onto the turkey. It slithered down the bird, bubbled on the platter, and began creeping toward the green beans. The room fell silent. Great-Grandpa Solon crossed himself with a biscuit. The gravy reached the edge of the table, then froze.

Calitha puffed out her chest. “See? Perfect consistency.”

Brindle clapped. The gravy trembled, then flung a glob square into Brindle’s hair. Pandemonium broke out. Chairs toppled. The cat vanished. Grandma shouted for salt, claiming it drove out evil. Someone threw a dinner roll at it. Miraculously, the gravy recoiled, hissed twice, and collapsed into a harmless puddle.

The family sat in stunned silence until Calitha said, “Well, at least it wasn’t bland this year.”