Accentuating the intrinsic beauty of unaffected innocence by means of free flowing lines, gentle, sweeping curves, and a swan-like grace, this alluring piece reflects the ingenuousness of an age now passed, but affectionately bethought and, during those increasingly rare moments of untroubled reflection, sorely missed.

Throughout the twenty-eight years of its existence, this F.B. Rogers Silver Gravy Boat has patiently awaited the opportunity to be pressed into that service for which is was so scrupulously crafted. For twenty-eight years, it has lain unseen, unused, and unappreciated. Although an inanimate object, one cannot help but feel a degree of sadness when any creation fails to satisfy its destined end. Never used, the condition of this piece is superb. On the underside of the Under Plate is affixed the original F.B. Rogers identification label as well as distinguishing inscriptions.1

Ere you determine that no gravy boat requirements currently exist in your household, please permit me to revive the ghosts of Thanksgiving last.

Having expended a not inconsiderable amount of time, toil, and perspiration, and having sustained but slightly fewer burns, cuts, and blisters than would warrant a trip to the Emergency Room Trauma Center, the culinary marathon of shaking, baking, basting, roasting, slicing, dicing, simmering, boiling, broiling, frying, sautéing, and steaming which was to culminate in a sumptuous feast known as Thanksgiving dinner was drawing to an eminent finale.

The kitchen, warmly lit by the soft glow of oven lights and stovetop gas jets; alive with the dancing shadows of steaming cookware and the phantoms born of flickering flames; and exhaling an aromatic admixture of stewing herbs, spices, sauces, and juices, was overflowing with an abundance of ambrosial delights. Adorning the countertops were such delectable comestibles as potatoes (mashed, baked, boiled, and fried), vegetables (colorful, varied, and plentiful), savories, sweetmeats, pies, rolls, buns, and breads of all manner. The turkey, both succulent and a rich, golden brown, was but moments from epicurean perfection.

The dining room table, boasting your finest china, crystal, silver, and floral arrangements, shimmered, sparkled, and shone with a beheld elegance heretofore unimagined. Presently, that loving multitude of kin and kith, who were temporarily ensconced within the confines of the living and family rooms where they were being dutifully entertained by convivial conversation as well as televised parades and sporting events (dependent upon the room in which they were situated), would fill these well-polished chairs. All that remained to render complete this sensory masterpiece was a single brushstroke—your signature gravy.

Suddenly, those ephemeral, abdominal butterflies, born of stress and nurtured by anticipation, which, but moments ago, fluttered ever so gently, were stirred to a maddened frenzy by the pangs of terror with which you were abruptly seized. The memory of Great-Aunt Agatha's ninetieth birthday party—dormant and, therefore, unrecalled for a period of many months—was resurrected by a single, two-syllable word: gravy.

It was an intimate gathering of venerable individuals who were convened to pay homage to an eminent family matriarch. Not unlike this day, you had endured the twin trials of fire and water in order to effect a truly memorable and magnificent celebration. All was proceeding splendidly until . . .

Great-Aunt Agatha, while recounting a particularly amusing anecdote from her misspent youth, and having become quite uncharacteristically animated and convulsed with laughter, began gesticulating wildly. With an unusually vigorous, yet graceful, sweeping motion of her right arm she inadvertently dislodged your heirloom crystal butter dish and gravy boat from the immaculately laid table on which they were comfortably settled. For the briefest of moments, the aforementioned vessels defied gravity until and inevitably—or so it would seem—they first made contact with, then careened from the chest of Great-Uncle Albert onto his lap where, quite unceremoniously, they deposited their contents.

Great-Uncle Albert, no doubt much startled by the unexpectedness of this occurrence and not a little discomfited by the hot liquid now basting his tender regions, leapt from his chair sending both the butter dish and gravy boat cascading onto the gleaming spender of the freshly waxed hardwood floors where, upon meeting their respective extinction, was birthed a multitude of glimmering and shimmering crystalline offspring.

One may, of course, substitute a quart or pint Mason jar (depending upon the size of the gathering) for a gravy boat, however that congenial ambiance for which one ever strives may prove slightly less attainable than one might otherwise wish.

*In the event that you are possessed of an inquisitive nature, it will undoubtedly interest you to note that the F.B. Rogers Silver Company was originally founded in Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts in 1883 and was relocated to Taunton, MA in 1886 where the artisans of this venerable firm continue to form and fashion all things bright and beautiful.

**We deeply and most sincerely regret that as a result of the mirror-like surface of this piece in combination with ambient light, camera flash, and the reflected images of the surrounding environment, the photographs hereupon presented are woefully inadequate in that they fail utterly to accurately portray either the purity or the clarity of this item.

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