The Cult of Chocolate Gravy
PART I: The Flashback
When I met Hayes for the first time outside of Hal & Mal’s in Jackson, Mississippi, no doubt my stomach was distended and my orbitofrontal cortex satiated by a plate of Tony’s hot tamales.
The door swung wide as I exited the restaurant and we literally ‘bout ran into each other. We knew the other through mutual friends, but it was the first time we’d ever met face to face.
Hayes and I got to know each other better as you do. There was a shared love of music, film—and most especially, food. Had a common friend from my hometown of Hernando—small world. It was an easy bond and I have always appreciated Hayes’ sense of humor and insight as a writer.
Hayes launched an online Southern music 'zine, christened it Hymnal, and assembled what felt like a band of Southern renegade writers. The group of us cut with the blade of a sharp, wild edge.
At the time, I worked for the Mississippi Film Office. With the research and content of the Mississippi Culinary Trail under my belt, I wanted to expand on the similarly-themed articles I wrote for the Jackson Free Press and Portico Jackson Magazine.
For the Hymnal pieces, Hayes connected me with fellow Mississippian Van Dyke Parks (born in Hattiesburg), who signed every email correspondence with “—trousers forward.” When we spoke on the phone, he laughed when I mentioned “Van Dyke” was a part of the great Southern tradition of double names.
I also interviewed singer-songwriter Kate Campbell (from Hollywood) who was a kindred spirit and Southern culture junkie. Kate and I inevitably gravitated toward the topic of food and after we hung up, she sent me a friend’s tomato gravy recipe.
Recently, Hayes and I reconnected. You know, one of those special creatures who, in conversation, you’d be none the wiser that hardly a day passed—despite time, distance, and literal transformation between who we were then and who we are present tense.
And, the river flows.
Since then we’ve been texting back and forth periodically, sending music links and recommendations, quotes and ideas, asking pertinent questions of the day, deciding when and only when a saxophone is appropriate in a rock song (i.e. properly buried in the mix), waxing poetic about Little Feat, reviewing our 80s-kids memories of Bruce Springsteen, and exploring a newfound appreciation of Elvis—I could go on.
This connection is even more powerful because we are both tilling ground in the process of self-resurrection—more specifically on the page writing ourselves out of respective seasons of grief.
For me, a large part of the excavation process is a revisitation of literal stacks on stacks on stacks of my scribbles, ideas, stories, songlets, and poems that oh-so-dramatically languish in neglected file folders and the odd plastic storage bin.
In particular, I returned to an article that didn’t get published.
It’s about gravy.
I grew up on gravy, son. If you travel a ways from the northwest corner of my personal origin between the Mississippi River bluffs of Memphis and the Delta (considered by most to be an extension of Memphis, anyway), on deeper into the south-central part of the state and beyond—the gravy flows progressively darker. Milky white sawmill gravy ripples into red-eye, tomato gravy, and finally surges into the Gulf a dark roux.
In the early days of my friendship with Hayes, I vividly remember a wide arc of conversation specifically on the subject of gravy, during which a mention of what I knew at the time to be the rarest of birds, bubbled to the surface: chocolate gravy.
I tasked myself with resuscitating this article not only from my past as a food writer and as a matter of principle—but, also because I felt the push from a memory that often whispers to me, a compelling statement from the Kate Campbell interview which to this day still rings in my ears: “We are the memory keepers.”
PART II: The Cult of Chocolate Gravy
I wrote the following essay a year or so ago. It’s accompanied by an illustration by my talented sister, Amy J. Lewis.
Illustration by my sister, Amy J. Lewis, 2022.
All sacred Southern texts agree: the tenets of our religion—and, in the Deep South, food IS a religion—begin with the ever so humble breakfast.
These days breakfast is fair game for early risers, brunch devotees, and those who crave it for supper. The concept of breakfast works any time of the day because it is simple comfort food and it always seems to be so natural a choice for every occasion. I’m looking at you, Waffle House.
As with any religion, there is a creation story that defines its philosophies. Those philosophies are the basis for the viewpoints that shape how we move through the world, and they shape our personal experiences—generally informing how we approach life.
In the South, our creation story appears on the plate with a fire, not unlike the Holy Trinity: eggs cooked to order surrounded by buttered biscuits and a generous bundle of salty pork products.
There are variants in execution and seasoning depending on personal taste; but, for argument’s sake, let’s just say the contents of our plates are traditionally laid out thus. On the table is an array of jellies, honey, sorghum—or, not too far from reach: gravy.
Now, I can’t deny that a certain percentage of my soul sustains a lasting amount of damage when fellow Southerners make sweeping statements such as, “I don’t like biscuits,” or “I don’t like gravy.” Oh, yes—those statements were said.
To my face.
It takes all the personal strength I can muster to hide my feelings of pure bewilderment because apparently, they are immune to the joy of a buttered-soaked biscuit—indifferent to the ecstasy of a bite of biscuits and gravy immediately followed by the insertion of a mouthful of nitrates.
That’s like sayin’ you don’t like air—or cheese—or pork rinds—or chicken livers. Alright, no chicken livers.
After growing up in the Deep South, and, traveling through the South as a whole, I’ve eaten my fair share of gravies. Various forms of this coveted medium took center stage on my plate at a very early age. My Daddy would usually make a sheet pan of his never-fail Bisquick biscuits with gravy on Sunday mornings before church.
The preacher could be prone to keep our backsides in church pews well past noon and every wayward soul needs a breakfast like that to carry you through.
At our house, the base of Daddy’s gravy was what Cracker Barrel culture recognizes as “sawmill gravy.” The standard addition to our milky mixture wasn’t the traditional sausage, though. He used seasoned ground beef—to which, after serving, my husband proclaimed: “That’s some Mississippi flatlander shit.”
He’s not wrong but I don’t care what he says, it’s good. On rare occasions, chipped beef was folded into the gravy and spilled over the sides of a piece of toast, otherwise known as “shit on a shingle.” Not my favorite by a long shot, but it happened.
As time went on my pilgrim’s path took me through the backroads and byways of the Southeast where a world of gravies spilled into consciousness: tomato gravy, red-eye gravy, sausage gravy, shrimp gravy, cornmeal gravy, various and sundry versions of sawmill gravy—even with the addition of rosemary and lions mane mushrooms.
I’ve happily eaten them all.
Years ago now, a faint whisper of chocolate gravy hit my ears—which my friend, Hayes, recently confirmed—but I guess my brain couldn’t absorb it at the time and promptly got filed away.
Soon after John and I met, we decided to move from my Mississippi homeland to the mountains of western North Carolina. We spent the next several years traveling all throughout the Appalachian region and beyond playing music. I became familiar with the ways of mountain folk, who were somewhat similar to my country flatlander relatives in Mississippi and those in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas.
Fast forward to the time I met my husband John’s family who hail from a deep holler in Southwestern Virginia: Grundy, to be exact. When John was about 5 or 6 years old, his parents moved three hours away to Mt. Sterling—a small town on the fringe of Eastern Kentucky—but they spent many a holiday or summer in the thick of it with their mountain friends and kin.
The first time I met John’s Mamaw Joyce, her question stunned me: “Have you ever had chocolate gravy?”
No, I haven’t.
To this day, I remember the first time I ate chocolate gravy. Believe me, you’ll always remember. I didn’t realize what a life-changing moment this would be—you think you know yourself.
On Christmas morning the smell of baking biscuits greeted us. Wafting up above that was a scent of such perfection, the essence of everything magical and mystical: butter, sugar—and cocoa.
My mother-in-law hovered over a large saucepan on the stove, diligently stirring the chocolatey concoction with attention and care. I bent over and inhaled what I knew was my destiny. I took my place at the table and waited…not so patiently. She made the call—it was ready—poured the contents into a bowl which then sat on the table in front of me. It felt like the thrill of a kid who can barely hold still before ripping the presents apart.
My inner dialogue raced. Admittedly, doubts surfaced. Is this too good to be true? Will it be weird? Will I hate this?
My eyes sized up the best biscuit for the job and split it lengthwise. The knife cut a healthy pat of butter and it touched down, melted sideways, and puddled on my plate. I reached for the ladle that calmly waited to perform its duty, scooped enough for maximum biscuit coverage, and in reverent silence I watched the sides of the plate slow its steady stream.
Within a span of mere earth seconds from fork contact to first bite, a passion consumed my heart—a holy fire, you could say. Euphoria coursed through every cell of my body. I had just experienced the holy grail of gravies. I ate every crumb and sopped up every remaining homeless smear. The plate was clean.
What’s more, my mother-in-law sent me home with a recipe card.
Before we proceed, let’s talk about this for a minute. If we are being honest, the concept of chocolate gravy shouldn’t even really work.
Chocolate. Gravy. Sweet. Savory. Even when you read the recipe it doesn’t seem possible that the ingredients could materialize into an edible tour de force.
It defies most descriptions, but the visual consistency is similar in vibe to warm molten lava cake sauce but it’s got more ass to it. It’s meatier—if you’ll allow me that descriptive liberty—and much denser.
And, the taste? Well, it's akin to a warm pudding—and, even that is misleading. The way the butter and cocoa marry in the catalyst heat of the saucepan gives the chocolate a depth of flavor that bonds so perfectly, so mysteriously—I mean, isn’t that what we want from a lover?
Technically, some say this qualifies as a sauce not gravy.
But we call it gravy, mmmkay?
To be gravy in every sense of the word, the combination of flour and fat—specifically butter—is paramount. There must be a roux. Instead of making an appearance in the beginning of the story, the binding agent enters like a plot twist, arriving just in time to save the day, at the tail end of the process.
Still—I had so many questions. This topic needed serious consultation beyond friends and family.
The internet goes into thorough detail exploring the historical origins of chocolate gravy. There are plenty of conjectures for the curious; but, one thing is for sure: it is definitely a creation of Appalachian origin with roots specifically in eastern Kentucky.
I decided to take my curiosity to just the place to elicit answers needed for this journey: the avid home cooks and folks in the Appalachian Foods and Recipes Facebook group.
I asked them 4 very simple questions:
Who first shared the gift of chocolate gravy with you and what special memories do you have?
What’s your favorite way to eat it?
Do you call it by any other name?
And, the most important question a Southerner can ask another: “Where are you from?”
The cult of chocolate gravy spoke—stoked by a fire in the bellies of hundreds of Appalachians and those of Appalachian descent far and wide. There were a few haters, yet most fondly shared memories, recipes, various modes of consumption, and reminisced together.
They all came to the same conclusion: it had been too long since they’d made chocolate gravy for their families. It’s not a decadent treat, it is an act of love.
We are forever indebted to the mothers-in-law and aunts, grannies and mamaws, grandpas, papaws, stepmoms, and cousins—or neighbors just down the road. Those precious humans who made it especially for us before church each week or when they came into town for a visit. For those who made chocolate gravy after we skipped school in the afternoon, for Christmas or Valentine’s Day, or surprised us with the perfect treat to accompany Saturday morning cartoons.
Whether your ancestors called it cocoa gravy, soppin’ chocolate, cocoa and biscuits, chocolate mess, chocolate sop, or chocolate mush, we cherish its existence in the world and fondly remember those who introduced us to this edible treasure.
Don’t be shy about your kinks. You can spoon chocolate gravy straight into your mouth. Pair it with your biscuit of choice: cathead, buttermilk, drop, or canned. Slather it on cornbread or a piece of toast, use it on a heaping stack of pancakes instead of syrup or smother your fried taters. Add spicy sausage or serve with a charred piece of fried bologna on the side. Throw fresh strawberries on top, add a dollop of toasted meringue, or use it as a topping for ice cream or Angel Food cake.
The consensus is all too clear: chocolate gravy is a memorable and lasting connection for each of us. From North and South Carolina to North Georgia and West Virginia, or whether it jumps the state lines to Northeast Mississippi or non-Appalachian locales like Oklahoma, Indiana or Mom and Pop diners in central Arkansas—we all share big love for this East Kentucky delicacy.
I’ve yet to hear of a restaurant in the Appalachian region that has chocolate gravy on the menu, so if it’s out there, let me know. (Tudor’s Biscuit World, you’re in the hot seat.)
Thank you to the memory keepers who shared from their well of experiences and replied to my Facebook post, who shared their family recipes, and who continue to pass down a sacred tradition to those of you out there still woefully uninformed.
Point proven. March 2022. Photo by Linda Jean Stokley.
Part III: Epilogue
I like to think chocolate—insert an inadvertent typo for a newest addition to the list—chocolate Cravy…
Ahem.
I like to think chocolate gravy is of similar importance to that of Jesus feeding the multitude with the loaves and the fishes. It fills our bellies and hearts with shared experiences that reach far beyond our own breakfast tables.
A couple of years ago, my Mississippi flatlander family experienced the hallelujah of chocolate gravy. They embraced the tradition with their usual passion for Southern delicacies. It was a memorable gift on Christmas Day.
The best beginning I can possibly ask for a holiday breakfast is a big, hearty biscuit (gimme a tall boy), add a little more salted butter, and spoon a generous pour of chocolate gravy on the plate. To complete the experience, my personal preference is to top that with sliced strawberries. A chocolate-covered strawberry on a biscuit. (Did I mention we played Biscuitfest a few years in a row?)
And, yes, even my father-in-law who won’t let gravy touch his lips on a good day, will never, ever turn down a huge plate of biscuits smothered in chocolate gravy.
For all the doubters and naysayers, the recipe is below. Join us in the land of the converted.
Musician and buddy, Sam Gleaves, graciously shared his no-fail biscuit recipe and gave me permission to share it with you. I have heard from two close friends who say these are the best biscuits they’ve ever had. Sam adapted this recipe from noted mountain ballad singer Sheila Kay Adams and banjo player Tyler Hughes who each had their own way of making them. (p.s. Today is also the day you should listen to their music.)
Biscuits
3 cups all-purpose flour
3 teaspoons baking powder
1⁄2 teaspoon salt
1⁄2 cup (1 stick) butter or 1/2 cup Crisco
1 1⁄2 to 2 cups buttermilk
Preheat oven to 450 degrees.
Directions
Combine dry ingredients.
Set out the butter to be room temperature. Butter biscuit pans thoroughly. Cast iron is best.
Slowly add the butter to dry ingredients in small pieces. Break up the large pieces of butter with a fork or pastry blender. Leave some larger lumps of butter.
Stir in enough buttermilk to make a soft dough. Remove dough on a well-floured surface and fold it over 2-3 times. Cut out biscuits.
Bake at 450 degrees for 12 to 15 minutes. If you like the biscuits more browned, I have baked for up to 20 minutes, depending on the oven. When biscuits are nearly done, take out and dab the tops with pats of butter or Crisco. Return to oven and broil on low for luscious brown tops, watching carefully to avoid burning.
Yields 6 or 7 giant biscuits.
Chocolate Gravy
(from my Mother-in-Law, Theresa Looney)
Ingredients
1⁄4 c cocoa powder
1 c granulated sugar
3 T all-purpose flour (heaping if you want thicker)
A couple of shakes of salt
2 c whole milk (can be evaporated milk)
4 T butter, cubed
1 tsp vanilla
Directions
Sift the cocoa, sugar, flour, and salt into a large skillet. Add the milk in slowly, whisking until smooth.
Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until the gravy thickens to the consistency of thin pudding, around 8 minutes. The gravy will thicken around the edge first, so keep stirring the bottom and sides.
Remove the skillet from the heat and add your butter and vanilla. Stir until melted and smooth. Serve with hot, buttered biscuits.
