My mother made stew often in winter. It was crowded with big chunks of tender beef, potatoes, carrots and onion in a rich sauce similar to thin gravy, laced with garlic, bay leaves, and thyme. It had simmered most of the day in a big kettle on the stove, filling the house with its enticing aroma and, steaming up the kitchen windows. His mother made soup. A clear, tea-colored broth swimming with bits of meat and vegetables and reminiscent of last Sunday’s roast beef.