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So, there you were. The big browned bird was resting nicely, ready to be carved. The sweet potatoes glistened with honey-coated goodness, the dressing was just a little crusty on top but not a bit dry, the slightly strange Jello-mold your significant other always insists on because that''s-what-his-mother-always-made released itself with a gentle plop, a whisper on the breath of God. The pumpkin pie was waiting patiently in the warming oven, the cream already whipped and chilled. You sigh. Yes. Oh, yes! You still had it. You knew you were good--damn good. You get a little shiver of satisfaction as you smooth your chignon, smiling subtly, and reach for a glass of bubbly.

But suddenly your hand starts to quiver. Fifteen people are seated, waiting. Your left eye twitches out of control. You have forgotten the gravy.

Every year, this needless tragedy strikes untold numbers of households because, as a rule, gravy is a forgotten, neglected art, relegated to bringing up the rear of the holiday kitchen crusades. Gravy, the ''homely English cousin of French sauces'' as deemed by culinary alchemist Harold McGee, is as integral to every American repast where fowl is featured as is the esteemed entr‚e itself. It''s of such necessity--but also fraught with dire consequences: undissolved starch balls rather than polite lumps that gingerly underscore authenticity, weak slurry that grows into doughy mass from panic-stricken emergency thickening procedures--that McGee devotes two pages to gravy examination in his excellent book, On Food and Cooking.

While it might seem suspect that the matter of a few humble ingredients could intimidate otherwise skilled, accomplished gastronomes, take several deep breaths before you whistle your way down the pre-fabricated gravy aisle at the local Safeway. Concerned local chef Nancy Ackerman of Maloney''s in Moss Landing sent out a recent alert regarding canned and bottled gravy products containing pre-meditated lumps, clever marketing attempts to lure harried, hapless holiday cooks into shameless deceit. We concur that such products are destined to fail at passing for the real thing, because the inescapable fact is that good gravy begins with the bird.

"Actually, I start with the raft of vegetables that the turkey sits on top of," Ackerman explains. "The mirepoix of onions, carrots, garlic and celery are going to add a lot of flavor to the pan drippings. Especially the onions, because the sugar in them is going to brown and lend a lot of color, too. To giblet or not to giblet--well, that''s a personal decision."

Chef and gravy maker extraordinaire, Sam Getz of Carmel Valley''s Stagecoach Caf‚, votes for tossing the giblets in with the stock that you make with the turkey necks. "I use about 8 tablespoons of flour in with the drippings and real butter, don''t use margarine," he warns, "and I can usually get about a half gallon of gravy out of one turkey." The trick is getting the flour a nice, even brown," Getz notes. "You can use the stock to bring it to consistency, or a combination of turkey or chicken stock and milk."

The thing is not to get impatient while your starch granules gelatinize and start to leak their magical amylose. Harold McGee recommends 1 to 2 tablespoons of flour for every cup of liquid, and adding just a little bit of stock at a time while you energetically whip the resulting paste into a smooth and compliant thing of beauty. Simmer a few minutes until it the viscosity pleases you, warm Gramma''s gravy boat, and toast yourself.

Yes. Oh, yes. You''ve still got it. cw