Sometime in 1991 or 1992, while we were living in Orem, Annette and I invited a couple of friends from church over for Sunday dinner and a game night. It was a simple plan. Dinner, conversation, then games.
We cooked elk steaks for the meal.
During dinner, the conversation drifted to hunting. Not because of the food, just one of those random Sunday dinner topics. People talked about deer hunting, elk hunting, and whether they enjoyed it. At some point, Annette and I mentioned casually that a family member had given us elk meat in the past.
That was when the guest wife jumped in.
She explained, at length, how much she disliked deer and elk meat. She talked about how it tasted gamey, how it left a bad aftertaste, and how she had decided long ago that she would never eat it again. This was not a passing comment. It was a full, soapbox-style explanation that lasted at least a minute.
Annette and I kept glancing at each other.
It was painfully awkward. We were literally eating elk as the main course. But she never asked what kind of meat we were serving, and after that speech, there was no chance we were going to volunteer the information. Had she asked directly, I am not sure I would have told her the truth. Thankfully, she did not.
We finished dinner. We cleared the table. We played games. The evening was enjoyable.
As they were leaving, she thanked us for the meal and complimented the steak. She said it was cooked perfectly and tasted great.
After the door closed, Annette and I laughed.
What stays with me is not the awkwardness, but the confidence. We had mentioned that relatives had given us elk meat. We were eating meat. Many people would have put those pieces together. She did not. Her certainty left no room for curiosity.
I have thought about that moment more than once over the years. It was a quiet reminder that confidence is not the same as awareness, and that sometimes the kindest response is simply to let people enjoy what they are already convinced they dislike.
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