The story behind this song
Three of them tried her Sunday gravy with her exact instructions, and it still came out wrong — because she doesn't measure, she knows it by the bread. Her kitchen smells like fifty Christmases and the timer's been broken for years.
Seventy years of pulling up chairs so nobody eats alone. For the grandma whose recipe was never the secret.
Lyrics
We followed the recipe.
It came out wrong again.
It came out wrong again.
Three of us tried your Sunday gravy,
measured everything you said —
you don't measure, that's the secret,
you just know it by the bread.
Your kitchen smells like fifty Christmases,
the timer's broke, you never need it.
measured everything you said —
you don't measure, that's the secret,
you just know it by the bread.
Your kitchen smells like fifty Christmases,
the timer's broke, you never need it.
We wrote it down. We watched you close.
It only works in your hands.
It only works in your hands.
'Cause nobody makes it like you, Grandma —
not the gravy, not the home.
Seventy years of pulling chairs up
so nobody eats alone.
We'd trade every written recipe
for one more Sunday at your stove.
not the gravy, not the home.
Seventy years of pulling chairs up
so nobody eats alone.
We'd trade every written recipe
for one more Sunday at your stove.
You remember every birthday,
every grandkid's middle name,
you've fed half the congregation
and the neighbors just the same.
The screen door's worn from welcome,
your chair's the one we all defend.
every grandkid's middle name,
you've fed half the congregation
and the neighbors just the same.
The screen door's worn from welcome,
your chair's the one we all defend.
We tried to copy how you love.
It only works in your hands.
It only works in your hands.
'Cause nobody makes it like you, Grandma —
not the gravy, not the home.
Seventy years of pulling chairs up
so nobody eats alone.
We'd trade every written recipe
for one more Sunday at your stove.
not the gravy, not the home.
Seventy years of pulling chairs up
so nobody eats alone.
We'd trade every written recipe
for one more Sunday at your stove.
Someday we'll teach our grandkids,
flour up to our elbows, saying
"this was hers — you don't measure.
You just know it by heart."
flour up to our elbows, saying
"this was hers — you don't measure.
You just know it by heart."
Nobody makes it like you, Grandma —
not the gravy, not the home.
Seventy years of pulling chairs up
so nobody eats alone.
We'd trade every written recipe
for one more Sunday at your stove.
not the gravy, not the home.
Seventy years of pulling chairs up
so nobody eats alone.
We'd trade every written recipe
for one more Sunday at your stove.
We followed the recipe.
Come show us one more time.
Come show us one more time.
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