Grandma Adler's Famous Mutton Stew | Freewrite: 5/9/24 | Prompt: A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

That my husband, Oskur, was stubborn, I wholeheartedly admitted as I sat in the rocking chair one Friday evening next to the fireplace. I shook my head in dismay at one of the qualities I disliked. Still, I continued knitting him a sweater. All was quiet. I glanced around the room, proud of our tiny cottage I'd managed to decorate with sparse furnishings. The aroma of mutton spiced with sage filled the room.

I rose to stir the hearty stew whose recipe I'd perfected from a patchwork of common sense and hearsay.

Suddenly, it was the howling of the wind and the batting of the shutters that startled me, causing the ladle to slip from my hand. The blistering cold had seeped under the cracks. Oskur had forgotten to bring in more wood for the stove. Luckily the mutton stew had finished cooking by the time the fire dwindled.

At the supper table, Oskur sat carving objects.

Putting aside his whittling knife and removing his cap, he took one spoonful of the mutton stew I set before him. Frowning, he spat it out, then pushed the bowl across the wooden table. It landed near the edge, spilling liquid.

Shocked, I stared at the bowl.

"Look woman," Oskur shouted, "if you can't make the stew right, then forget it! I've given you the recipe as best I remember. Now go fetch your quill and parchment. This is the last time I'm going to explain this!"

"My name is Fiona. And it'll serve you well in the future to remember that!" I delivered as calmly as I could.

Hesitating, it took a moment for me to walk. I returned seething. That was my final attempt to reproduce Grandma Adler's Famous Mutton Stew. My pulse beat faster as I watched the dinner grow cold.

Standing next to him, I looked down. I studied the spot on his head where his hair had begun to disappear. Oskur didn't see my clenched jaw; nor know the anger that rose up and threatened to leap from my eyes like flames from the fireplace.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

The writing tool trembled in my hand as I tightened my grip. I gazed slowly from its tip to the side of Oskur's head. I frowned thinking, if only his head wasn't so thick, this might put a dent into it! But I quickly composed herself as I'd done numerous times before.

Oskur started. But no ingredients came forth from his foul mouth.

Instead, I stood motionless as he spewed out all the frustrations life had heaped upon him. The last of which was a wife that wasn't his first choice. I listened as a shiver ran through my spine.

It didn't ease up. In fact, it spread to my throat causing a thick lump as I swallowed whenever he mentioned the subject. And this was the man that just last week pleaded his case as to why we should start a family after only six months of marriage. "Let's get on with the business before we're past being able to," he spat.

I wasn't the most learned person; neither was he, so I let it go.

But this business with the mutton stew was the last straw. I was done with the whole situation involving that darn recipe with the secret ingredient even he didn't know. I was done trying to satisfy him.

In fact, I was done with the whole idea of marriage to that man.

I laid my quill down.

It's funny how in that moment I realized it was the small things that add up over time that's not resolved.

I knew this conversation would occur sooner or later about our extreme differences. I didn't know it would be Grandma Adler's Famous Mutton Stew whose pot would boil over and spill everything at issue in our relationship.

I turned and walked toward the fireplace. I needed to distance myself from this man who hurled insults at me daily without apologizing. I needed to think whether I'd spend another night in his cottage.

I could understand now why my sister-in-law, Alice, one day just packed up and left. Oskur and Henri were brothers. And that same grandmother raised them from ever being satisfied with a wife who wasn't on her level of cooking and housekeeping. Thank God the grandfather didn't leave them with unrealistic expectations pertaining to other workings in a marriage.

I had no idea the mindset my father had condemned me to when I married Oskur. Ours was a short courtship. I can't say romance and love was a part of the bargain when my father arranged our union.

So it was with that frame of mind that the words easily poured forth after returning to the table and sitting opposite Oskur.

"No use getting upset and yelling at me. I can hear you just fine. I suggest that if you want that secret ingredient in your mutton stew, you calm down this instant! Now think, man. It was Your grandmother! Her memory is gone at nine-two. And it seems you're not to far behind, so if you want that stew cooked exactly as she prepared it, I'd advise you to put on your boots and make haste to her home. Perhaps the recipe with the secret ingredient is somewhere hidden among her treasures you keep saying she'll pass on to you one day."

Oskur turned and stared at me for a few moments, then unexpectedly murmured, "I forgot the wood."

I was by no means finished.

"That's not all you forgot," I hissed. "You forgot to apologize to me for treating me with no respect. If you don't change your attitude about every single item in our marriage, especially that darn recipe, then you may as well join your brother who has already lost his wife. I can always return to my father's house where I know I'm welcome and loved. You decide!"

Standing up facing him, I crossed my arms and waited.

It was the first time he'd heard me talk with that authority. I considered packing my suitcase. If he returned without the secret ingredient, there would be no pleasing him. Ever.

He bristled and stood tall, towering over me as if he were about to pounce. But he merely reached over and retrieved his cap and scarf from the rack. The next moment, the door slammed. He was gone. Hopefully to gather more wood.

My shoulders relaxed. It went better than I expected.

Thirty minutes later, Oskur returned.

Sitting at the table, I watched curiously while he put away his outer garments, then placed the sack of logs in the corner behind the stove. Another log he tossed inside the stove. He stood with his back facing me while gazing out the window as snow gathered on the sill in the bright moon.

He strode over to the table. Reaching for the bowl of stew, he place it on the stove's burner. Once heated, he removed it carefully with the mitten, then guided it to the table.

He eased himself into the chair. Picking up the ladle, he scooped out two servings of stew; one for him, and to my surprise, a bowl for me. He began to eat, careful not to look in my direction.

I reached across the table and cut two slices of bread and spread butter on each. He accepted it.

All this done in silence.

Once finished, Oskur rose and stared at me for the longest moment. I couldn't decipher the expression on his face, but it was different from before he left.

"Let's clean up and retire for the night," he remarked gruffly, but in a softer tone.

Without a word, I nodded and went about the duties of caring for my home and my husband.

That was thirty years ago, five children, and thirteen grandchildren.

The mystery ingredient in Grandma Adler's Beef Stew was never mentioned again and has remained a secret to this day.

Welcome back to my freewrite prompt story for this week. The photo that is the subject of the story spoke to me about two people who are engaged in a heated conversation.

Describe what you see.
I see two people in a small cabin. I gauge that they are related, perhaps husband and wife. They are engaged in a conversation. With his hand to his forehead, the man is gazing down at the pot of stew or soup on the table. Also on the table are carrots and tomatoes, with a loaf of bread, and a basket of fruit.

The woman is holding a writing pen in one hand and a piece of parchment in the other. Outside the cottage, the season appears to be winter as visibility is clouded with snow.

Describe what you feel.
I feel the couple is having a heated conversation, perhaps about the ingredients in the pot of stew. Both appear unhappy, perhaps about how the dish turned out. And perhaps it's missing an ingredient they can't figure out.

Write a story or poem about what you think is going on. I leave with you my story for: A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words - date.

^{Image used with permission of contest owner}