I was well on my way to an A+ for my work in the kitchen this afternoon/evening.  Wouldn't you know it:  I botched the ending.  Frak.  I had been on a roll with getting Baby Duck to eat like a champ when I made roast chicken, so that was tonight's entrée.  I had planned ahead and procured all the necessary ingredients (I like to make mine with parsley, onion and lemon in the bird) in a timely fashion.  I had even averted disaster when I realized that although I had run out of extra virgin olive oil (a kitchen staple in my house as well as my preferred coating for the chicken skin), I could branch out and use butter just this once.  No problem.  I even decided to go with some homemade mashed potatoes and make gravy from the chicken drippings.  
    The chicken:  moist and delicious.  The peas:  were peas.  If you love them as I do, they were delectable.  If you're my aunt Kathy, you would have requested a chain mail tunic and a battle axe to keep them from inflicting any harm.  The mashed potatoes:  smooth and creamy, with just enough butter.  The gravy:  well, that's where it fell apart.
    The gravy had really nice flavor and wonderful potential.  I should be proud of my effort.  But I am not.  I have become a pretty decent cook over the years, and this was just an elementary mistake.  I waited too long to start the gravy, so a reasonable amount of cornstarch was just not enough to thicken the gravy in time for the dinner bell.  I faced a choice:  Serve runny gravy with dinner or put a hold on mealtime until the gravy was ready.  I showed that I would never make a respectable chef; my family was hungry.  I went with the runny gravy.
    I hate it when I get tripped up on some mundane detail.  Like when Michael Bolton put a decimal point in the wrong place in Office Space.  At least I don't have to pester a former crack addict for information on how to launder money after my error...

CL