STEW
About a week ago I made stew. Norm likes stew. I like stew, too. I haven’t
eaten much beef in the last 10 years, but I could enjoy the vegetables in the
gravy and Norm could eat the rest. So, I got the crock pot out of the cupboard
and began to make the stew. I wanted it to be special, so I was careful to
follow all the instructions I think I have ever heard on how to make it. I
added herbs, onion, garlic etc. Somewhere along the line, I remembered that
Norm liked steak spice, so I also added some of that. I also remembered that
he liked the battered fish I made when it had more salt and pepper, so I added
more salt and pepper. He had shared some tips from other stews that he had
enjoyed like adding a bouillon cube. I had bought beef broth even though I had
never used it in stew before. I thought it could replace the bouillon cube and
add flavour.
I let the stew stew all day and when I did the first taste test I was
confused. It tasted horrible. Too much of something or too much of
everything. It was bad. I thought I had heard that you could add baking soda
to counteract over-spicing, so I added that and a couple of cups of water and
prayed. It was still bad. I served it up, in small portions so we could taste
it before we had more. Norm bravely cleaned his plate. I ate mine all the
while apologizing for the spiciness. I wasn’t just spicy. The blend of the
spices was way off. I mean it was bad.
A couple of days later the leftover stew was still in the casserole in the
fridge. We were out finishing up some Christmas shopping when Norm reached for
my hand. “Are you listening?” he asked. “Yes,” I
answered.” Okay, because this is important and could change our relationship,
so I need you to hold my hand and pay attention.” He had my attention. What
could this be? A revelation? or a confession? I waited for him to search for
the correct way to tell me whatever it was. Finally, he said “I can’t eat
any more of your stew. I think it needs to be thrown out. I don’t want you to
be upset with me, but I think we should go out for supper tonight.” He
announced sheepishly. “I agree,” I said, squeezing his hand. I was so
relieved. I started to laugh. I confessed that I didn’t want to suffer the
same heartburn I had had after the first dose, and I was ready to toss it. We
reaffirmed our pact to tell each other the truth even if it’s difficult to
hear. Then we started comparing the offending stew to other
not-even-close-to-delicious dishes we had eaten in the past and agreed to try
again in the future.
There is a lesson in there somewhere. The stew seems like a metaphor for my
life. I am rarely satisfied with sticking to a formula or a recipe and always
think that more is better. It’s true in my writing. A lot of words get edited
out on the second and third read. It’s true in my wardrobe. I have so many
pairs of boots and sandals. Until recently I didn’t understand the wisdom of downsizing,
of cutting back, of having enough … no need to buy more. I know that I can
survive comfortably with less furniture, less clothing, and fewer food choice
in the fridge. I have been adjusting. Fewer new books, fewer new shoes,
reusing older items or buying second hand. Decluttering is important, and I
have been discarding and shredding documents and getting rid of things I really
can do without at this stage in my life. I have also learned to NOT replace
what I give away. Sometimes adding things, words, and ideas just complicates
matters. I say I want a simpler life and I do.
There is simply no need for as much stuff as I have collected over the
years. I knew that … but I don’t think I
saw how destructive “more” could be until the stew.
Keeping it simple has new meaning for me today. Meat, vegetables, a little
water and time. That’s all it needed.
