Broxy Stew

Sunrise wasn’t far off, and it was Thursday once again. He could hear the wind sharply blowing hard against the left side of the house. It would be miserable outside this early. The thought of it all made him pull the faded cotton quilt higher around his neck. The pillows had never felt so soft, the comfort of the mattress so appealing. But it was Thursday, and he would need to be out and hunting before dawn.

Tonight was Broxy stew night, tonight was Thursday, everyone else was depending upon him for their dinner.

From down the hall in the kitchen he heard the electric coffee pot click on. He lay still in the bed until he could smell the coffee brewing then summoning all his strength tossed all the covers aside onto the floor and moved swiftly out of bed. Experience had taught him that once the quilts grew cold on the wooden floor they would lose their powers of persuasion.

He had prepared his backpack the evening before, so departure into the cold predawn was merely a matter of layering up the clothing and drinking down the mug of coffee. It was always unsettling to try to eat before the hunt, there was too much else to plan.

Everything else was sitting ready on the kitchen table. On Broxy stew night it was best to have all the other ingredients lined up and ready to go. He methodically scanned the sack of red potatoes, the red onions, the chili powder and carrots. Reaching up over the stove he lifted down the big blue speckled stew pot and set it on the kitchen table along with the large wooden stirring spoon.

Nodding toward the necessities in approval, he slipped a dark grey parka over his clothes, shouldered his back pack and headed out the door. The wind cut through the air like an icy razor, but the high oxygen level in the cold air was exhilarating.

Although it was challenging to get out of bed on Broxy stew day, he always felt excited about the hunt once he was actually on his way to the hunt site.