When we were kids, my mom would generally prepare dinner in, ah, a hasty manner. She was very involved with her siblings and friends and our town, and she never really loved cooking dinner night after night after night. Having raised children of my own, I understand that. Many were the nights when she’d glance at the clock, realize my dad would be home soon, smother a curse, and start rummaging through the freezer to see what she could throw together.
One of the regulars was beef stew. I’ve heard that beef stew can be tasty, but this was not something I learned at Sainted Mother’s table. To be fair, she shopped as often as possible at the little grocery store owned by her parents. I loved that store. All my cousins loved that store. But what I hated very much was to hear my mother say, “Give me some stew meat, Dad.”
My grandfather was a frugal man. Being that there was inevitably a family discount, I imagined Poppy would open the meat fridge, look for the lowest quality meat and shovel some into butcher paper for Mom. We’d then go home, and Sainted Mother toss the gristly meat into a pot, chop a few carrots and celery sticks, and, while talking on the phone to one of her sisters, crack open a Budweiser, pour half of it in the stew pot and drink the other half. This would be the American version of Guinness stew, I think.
My sister and I hated beef stew. We’d chew and chew and chew on that meat until our little jaws were sore. The smell of burnt carrots and the king of beers didn’t improve things. We were Gen X, though, and dinner was dinner, and if you didn’t like, go to bed hungry, no dessert for you, missy.
However, we did have three badly behaved Irish setters who would lounge under the table. If a child was clever (and I was), she could put some stew meat into her mouth, hold the napkin to her lips as if wiping, transfer the meat into the napkin slide the chunk of beef to a dog. My sister, on the other hand, would simply sit and refuse. Our dad would say, “You’re not leaving this table till your plate is clean, young lady,” and my sister would leap to accept that challenge. She could sit for hours in a stony silence, staring at our father, until he sighed and told her to go to bed. A will of iron, my sissy. I preferred the cheater’s way so I could get dessert (obviously).
Fast forward to our one and only camping trip to Vermont. We’d bought a pop-up camper —the kind that has two sides which fold out to be the “beds,” a tiny gas can for cooking and a sink where you’d have to pump the faucet to get the water from the little plastic tank below. The kitchen table collapsed into another “bed,” and the five of us were thus housed. We kids loved it, and were very excited to be going to the exotic state of Vermont. The drive turned out to be longer than expected, and we got to the campground late. The ranger didn’t want to let us in, but seeing my father’s desperate face and hearing our whines of hunger from the back seat, finally gave in and opened the gate.
We pulled up to a campsite, and Mom and Dad flipped open our accommodations. Then Dad took us down to the lake to see the stars, which were brilliant and beautiful. Meanwhile, Mom had to make dinner for the family, though it had to be close to midnight. She cracked open a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, dumped it into a pot and heated it up. We little Higlets scrambled up the path and sat around the fire as Mom handed us bowls.
“This is delicious!” I exclaimed. “What it is?”
“It’s beef stew,” snapped Sainted Mother, betrayed that I hadn’t recognized it as the stuff she cooked weekly.
“It’s the best beef stew I’ve ever had,” I said in the same tone the Wise Men must've used when meeting Baby Jesus.
A couple decades later, I was feeling nostalgic and bought a can of Dinty Moore. And you know what? It’s still the best beef stew I’ve ever had, since I have never once been brave enough to order it in a restaurant. Not even in Ireland, where the beer would definitely be Guinness.