I’m in the middle of the pine-paneled restaurant at Boyne Mountain Resort, somewhere at the top of Michigan’s mitt, between Lake Michigan and Lake Huron.
Sitting in a large, carved pine chair.
Twice as large as it needs to be.
Four times for me.
Looking around the big, round table, there are siblings to the left and siblings to the right, with Mom and Dad straight ahead.
Everyone capable of reading the menu, is.
Scanning mine for a third or fourth time, my eyes keep returning to the word “stew”, which conjures a mouthwatering picture in my head - big, chunks of tender meat in a rich, dark gravy.
“How different could mutton and beef be?” a voice in my head insists - repeatedly - drowning out all inner arguments and already placed orders.
It's my turn.
"I'll have the Mutton Stew, please.”
The waitress looks up from her pad, hesitates, and then looks to Mom and Dad.
“Oh, Annie, you won’t like that,” Mom gently suggests. “It has a very strong flavor.”
But I protest.
“Anne Elizabeth.”
“Please, Dad. I know I’ll like it ,” I plead, revving the perpetually high-powered motor that drives most eight-year-olds.
Dad raises his eyebrows.
The lady is waiting.
“The Troops” are hungry and restless.
Mom urges me, once more, to reconsider, but I remain unflappable.
Dad is looking directly at me when the waitress says, “All right then, Mutton Stew for the young lady.”
Triumphant, I can already taste the dark, rich gravy.
Minutes seem like hours.
The baskets of crackers and breadsticks and the pats of butter on small mountains of ice in the center of the big round table are rapidly disappearing.
Just follow the crumb trails to the culprits.
Behind my family and the large, glass windows overlooking the resort’s ski hills, the slopes are ablaze and white and dotted with skiiers still eager to slip and slide down the gentle, rolling, Midwestern hills.
The hungry voice in my head has now enlisted my stomach, which rumbles, low and loud. Even with all of the motion and commotion of the busy resort, all I can think about is my stew until the waitress returns with her overburdened tray.
Burgers and fries pass by my eyes.
Mom has soup and Dad’s given pasta.
It takes two hands to carry the large, shallow bowl heading my way.
I can hardly keep still in my seat.
My eyes follow the large, round bowl to the place setting in front of me and I look down to see…
… a sea of grayish-brownish goo; its foul smell already invading my nostrils.
Pungent.
Powerful.
Horrible.
My hunger instantly retreats, but all eyes at the table are on me.
Even the waitress is loitering nearby.
I can’t possibly back down before the first bite and so, with reluctance, I grab the smallest spoon and in it goes.
Realeasing more stink from the bowl of brown-gray gloom.
I scoop up a small, dark morsel; highly doubtful about this dubious-scented mouthful.
It’s instant repulsion.
Unbridled revulsion.
A funky chunk of grisly meat that my tongue and teeth want to reject and my throat wants to eject into the clean, white napkin in my lap.
But it’s swallow it, or my pride.
The mutton punishes me all the way down.
Without a word, Mom and Dad turn their attention to their own plates.
The Troops follow.
While I’m left alone to stew.
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