After my late brother was widowed, he made stew. Nothing else ... just stew. Constantly. When the stew pot got a little low, he'd take it out of the fridge, heat it up, and start adding "stuff."

It made it real easy for me to visit him. I'd bring stuff to add to his stew. When I went down there, we had stew. Good stuff ... stew.

I swear that stew pot never got empty, or boring, for the last fifteen years of his life. And it never tasted the same. It was always interesting, delicious, and filling.

I was going to add some more comments, but I'm getting hungry. I think I'll go make some stew. (good stuff ... stew). bob