The trout whisperer

She’s pointing, see there, the sky is filling with those tiny white birds. We all look out the kitchen window to see the first snowflakes of the fall, falling. Made me take stock. I was wondering if I have enough firewood put up, but I think that almost all year anyway, when he says, “Well, if it’s gonna snow, better set a date for the griddle war.
It’s a competition in the neighborhood, one guy a retired firefighter, another one’s wife, she was a schoolteacher, myself, and the man of those whose brain child this was in the first place are the contestants.
The prize, a travelling rusty cast iron tea pot, it’s never been used that I can recall, and it would need a good scouring of some sort before one could use it with its crust of rust about the lid’s rim.
Heaps of rutabagas, carrots, beef chunked, spices galore and I arrive with one parsnip in my shirt pocket, I’m not gonna use it, but I’ll make them think I’m gonna.
Only one dish allowed, it’s a pot of beef stew, your style, your fixings, your choice of seasoning, that you hope will after one spoonful the supposedly unbiased judges(spouses) says,” yup that one, that’s the one we like” and then I’d be pronounced the winner. But that’s not the way things cooked out, again.