Author: Dené

Unapologetically me. Not a polished lifestyle blog. Not a self-help blog. Just a place where you never know whether the next post will make you laugh, cry, or spit out your coffee

Poor Man’s Stew Gets an Upgrade

There are recipes that feed your stomach.

And then there are recipes that quietly become part of your story.

For years I’ve made what everyone on the internet calls Poor Man’s Stew. Ground beef, potatoes, carrots, onions… the kind of meal that stretches a dollar and warms a house.

It’s good.

But somewhere along the way, I started wondering…

“What if poor man’s stew had a rich cousin?”

So I fired the ground beef.

Instead, I buy a beautiful ribeye.

I season it simply with salt and pepper, cook it just until it’s somewhere between rare and medium rare, then let it rest before slicing it into thin strips. While the steak rests, I toss mushrooms into the same hot pan and let them soak up every buttery, beefy drop left behind.

Those mushrooms may actually be my favorite part.

The soup itself still simmers with potatoes, carrots, onions, garlic, tomatoes, and beef broth, just like it always has. But the steak never goes into the pot. I learned that lesson the hard way.

A beautiful ribeye deserves better than to boil itself into shoe leather.

Instead, I ladle the hot soup into bowls and lay the slices of steak on top at the very end. The heat of the broth gently warms the meat without stealing its tenderness.

I thought I’d perfected it.

Then He came along.

Without saying a word, he grabbed one of the homemade biscuits I’d baked the day before and dropped it right into the center of his soup bowl before ladling the stew over it.

I watched him take one bite.

Then another.

Then another.

“This…” he said between bites, “…is unbelievable.”

The biscuit soaked up the rich broth without falling apart. The edges stayed soft while the top peeked through the soup, catching little pieces of mushroom and ribeye with every spoonful.

I wish I could tell you I planned it that way.

I didn’t.

Some of the best recipes happen because someone ignores the instructions.

So I suppose this recipe isn’t Poor Man’s Stew anymore.

It’s not even Ribeye Stew.

At my house, it’s become Rich Man’s Soup.

Not because it costs more.

Because it reminds me that richness isn’t always measured by the price of a steak.

Sometimes it’s measured by someone sitting across the table saying,

“You have to make this again.”

Rich Man’s Soup

Instead of:

  • 1 pound ground beef

Use:

  • 1 well-marbled ribeye steak
  • 8 ounces mushrooms, sliced
  • Salt and pepper
  • A little butter or olive oil for the mushrooms

Everything else stays the same:

  • 3 carrots
  • 1 onion
  • 3 Yukon Gold potatoes
  • Garlic
  • Beef broth
  • Italian-seasoned diced tomatoes
  • (Continue with the original recipe.)

My Method

  1. Simmer the soup exactly as directed, without any meat.
  2. While it cooks, season and sear the ribeye to rare or medium-rare.
  3. Let the steak rest.
  4. Cook the mushrooms in the same pan until they’ve absorbed all those wonderful steak juices.
  5. Slice the steak thinly.
  6. Place mushrooms in each serving bowl, ladle the hot soup over them, then top with the sliced ribeye.
  7. And now, thanks to him… place a homemade biscuit in the bottom of the bowl before adding the soup.

Trust me on that last part.

You’ll never look at “Poor Man’s Stew” the same way again.

-Dené, still figuring it out

chapter 2

Looking back, I don’t remember a time when she was dependable.

The first time I remember her forgetting me, I was in first grade.

The final bell rang, and children poured out of the school building into the arms of waiting parents. One by one, they disappeared. Cars pulled away. Teachers gathered their things and headed home.

I stood on the curb and waited.

The afternoon air grew colder. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, then tucked them under my arms. Still I waited.

Eventually, there was no one left but me.

Our house wasn’t far from the school. I had walked there many mornings, holding Daddy’s hand or following a familiar route, but I had never walked home alone. Standing there with no other choice, I started walking.

My fingers were so cold they ached. Then they went numb.

I remember trying to retrace the route in reverse, hoping I was going the right way. Every corner looked unfamiliar. Every block seemed longer than it should have been.

Then finally, I turned the last corner and saw our house.

Relief rushed through me.

I ran up the back steps and grabbed the screen door.

Locked.

At six years old, I didn’t stop to wonder why it was locked. Years later I would realize the obvious—that someone had been inside all along. But at the time, all I knew was that I was cold, alone, and scared.

Daddy wouldn’t be home until after football practice. After dark.

I sat on the steps and waited.

Then, as suddenly as if she had appeared out of thin air, she was there.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Maybe she explained. Maybe she didn’t. If she did, I don’t remember.

What I remember is that it happened again.

And again.

Soon, being forgotten became normal.

When the last child left school, I knew what that meant. I would be walking home.

Most of the time she was there when I arrived. Sometimes she bought me a chocolate Coke at Rexall Drugstore. Sometimes she took me to the library and let me pick out a book.

Back then, I thought those things were treats.

Now I wonder if they were apologies.

Either way, Daddy never knew.

He was busy teaching school and coaching football, basketball, and track. His days started before sunrise and ended long after dark. While he was working, I learned to keep secrets.

Especially the ones that hurt.

By second grade, football season had become my favorite time of year.

I loved pulling on my Cleveland Tigers cheerleading uniform and walking into the stadium beside Daddy. I loved the smell of popcorn drifting from the concession stand. The girl behind the counter always handed me a free bag because I was the coach’s daughter.

It made me feel special.

The first game of the season, she promised she would pick me up after school.

Not only promised—she gave instructions.

“Don’t leave,” she said. “Don’t walk home. Wait for me.”

I believed her.

All day I watched the clock.

When the final bell rang, I ran outside expecting to see her waiting in the new car Daddy had bought her.

She wasn’t there.

Still, I wasn’t worried.

She promised.

So I waited.

The crowd thinned. Cars disappeared. Teachers left.

Soon the playground belonged only to me.

I climbed onto the merry-go-round and lay on the cold metal, slowly pushing myself in circles with one foot.

Waiting.

Watching.

Believing.

After a while, I realized I needed to use the bathroom.

The school was locked.

I crossed my legs and tried not to think about it.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours.

I stood in the middle of the merry-go-round and rose onto my tiptoes, stretching my neck as far as it would go, convinced that any second I would see her car coming down the road.

That was when it happened.

Warmth spread down my legs.

For a brief moment, it felt like relief.

Then the autumn air hit my wet clothes.

The warmth vanished.

I stood there shivering, staring down at myself, humiliated and alone.

Finally, I started walking home.

I don’t remember what excuse she gave that day.

I don’t remember whether she apologized.

What I remember is that we never went to the football game.

In fact, after that day, we never went to another one together.

Some disappointments are so ordinary when they happen that you don’t recognize them as heartbreak until years later.

This was one of them.

It’s the nights when lonely arrives

The nights are darkest. The days pass without immense feelings of loneliness, but it’s the nights.

The nights bring the truth.

The truth is that this may be my eternity. I could spend the next 35 years or the equivalent of another lifetime, sleeping alone and waking the same.

I am not OK with that realization.

I am fiercely independent and honestly don’t even want to share my closet or clean up after another person but I don’t want to spend my eternity dreading the 10 or 15 or 30 where I lie in my bed alone. To stretch my toes and reach for anothers foot to touch. I wish for the sound of deep breathing next to me and the rumble of snoring would bring me such peace.

23 hours are manageable. It’s only the night that brings the lonely.

reconnecting

it seems the older i get the smaller my circles become. family circles. friend circles. circles of people i trust.

making new friends isn’t difficult, but finding those friends who are your people takes time. it was so much easier when my life as an adult began, and i was married and having babies. and my friends were getting married and having babies, and we were all in the same life cycle.

but that changes. the older we get the more our life cycle changes. we all have this book that we are writing about our lives, but the chapters happen in different order sometimes. some of us bury our parents. some of us bury our children. some of us bury people with whom we just needed more time.

and the chapters diverge into different directions. time passes, and sometimes we find ourselves alone on an island.
but the lifecycle and the beauty that i am rediscovering in this stage of my life is that some of those people that i connected with in my 20s and my 30s as we were bearing and raising our children, those friendships have continued and we have been able to pick up where we left off as if no time had passed – as if decades had not passed.

marriages ended. careers changed. our children grew up and moved away and led their own lives. and that circle that began so long ago reopens and life gives us another chance so that we are not alone.

what a gift.

in a time when i felt like those circles were shrinking, there is a surge and familial relationships are healed and friendships are renewed.

we must never give up. because just when we think we are alone, we turn the page and realize that our story isn’t over.

what a gift.

Far from perfect

i am so far from perfect

i am clumsy at times. i laugh at the most inappropriate things. and i am so much dumber than people think that i am.

i know how to fake it. but i am threatened and lack confidence when people have the ability to see the real me. i question myself frequently.

but when i love. i love completely. i never doubt those feelings because they don’t come quickly or easily. and when i love it is not something that i can control and i will love until i’m told to stop. even then, it’s impossible.

i am so far from perfect.