A Twist
by Adam Kibbe
To cook, or not to cook, that is the question:
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous insults,
Or to take arms against a sea of gullets,
And by opposing, fill them. To cook, to eat --
No more, and by a sleep to say we end
The heartburn and the thousand caloric shocks
That flesh is heir to; tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wishd. To cook, to eat--
To belch, perchance to do dishes -- ay, theres the rub,
For in that pile of dishes what drudge may come,
When we have pushed off from the messy table,
Must give us pause;
(My apologies to the Bard, and to his Danish prince -- whats rotten tis
I)
We cook for many reasons -- praise, of course, is one. With guys, theres
always some form of competition, much as we might avow an aversion to the same.
Best meal of the trip is no longer an official award (it never actually
was, though weve come close). Still, you want to know where you rank.
Enough so that there is positioning that takes place even before the trip, like
race car drivers posting up.
The assignment of the meal schedule is arguably the most rigorous planning that
goes into our Maine culinary excursions. Strategy is involved. The first dinner
has a romantic appeal, and the likelihood of appreciative diners with an appetite
high -- the last dinner finds torpid elephant seals, cranky from overeating,
hard to score points with. Breakfasts require a certain courageous constitution
on the cooks part, though again, the appreciation level is high, and amplified
by points for toughness. Lunches are simply tough.
There are also practicalities -- someones meal may involve dangerous perishables,
and despite the season, natural deep freeze is not assured, ice melts, and no
one wants to eat 5-day old unrefrigerated chicken. But a sequence is always
agreed upon, and all cooks share the same background desire to please, and to
be appreciated.
A certain amount of hubris is involved, sure. Showmanship has fully entered
into the game, with real crystal and linen napkins placed beside Sierra cups
for effect. Mushroom soup without sherry and sour cream and chive garnis would
not pass muster (wed eat it, but oh, the comments.....). This facet of
presentation began innocently enough one year when Michael, in characteristic,
deeply creative thoughtfulness, brought new cut crystal glasses from which to
sip Scotch in memoriam of a recently deceased friend. Thoughtful. Elegant. And
the delight in the incongruity stuck with us.
Other writings on these trips have used the phrase pack canoe. With
no explanation, as if it were a natural accessory. In reality, it is obscene
and unprecedented (save for Lewis and Clark, who had valid reason), and it is
this addiction to meals of distinction more than anything else that has swollen
our gear pile (and our waistlines) to the point of necessitating the deep, long
canoes we use. And even a pack canoe.
One year five of us mustered seven coolers. Thats what we took out there
after consolidation in Dans driveway. To be sure, four of them
were small, even minis, with just a six pack or so, but even the most decadent
among us blushed some at the spectacle. Thats what it takes, though, to
get these four-star seven-course meals into the backwoods.
Those who have never shared our sylvan table cannot dispute the stars I bestow
upon these heroic epicurean feats. And lest you challenge the scope, let me
stop you -- I did mean seven.
First, there are cocktails, accompanied by some sort of nibbles. Not appetizers,
just saliva inducers -- nuts, cheese, something. Our drinks tend towards Dark-n-Stormies
with Goslings Black Seal and Barretts ginger beer (Goya when we
can get it), or Vodka tonics with Skyy and a lime wedge. Last Lobster, a martini
with a twist, in a real blown-glass martini glass with a thumb-dimple. Sometimes
cocktail hour becomes full-fledged wine-tasting, with 2 to 4 bottles
out for comparison. And while the group drinks heavily (probably to dull the
pain of the reality that theyre about to have to eat again and make like
they love it), the cook makes (or maybe just heats) the real appetizers -- sushi,
quesadillas, jalapeno poppers, perhaps a fancier cheese array.
Thats two.
Sometimes there are salads. Might be veggies, often fruit, sometimes both --
I once made pear salad on Boston lettuce with sharp cheddar and Catalina dressing,
a traditional family favorite. But youve gotta be careful not to repeat
yourself (exception made for sushi).
Then there is the first true course (but by my count serving number 4), which
is never sedate -- enchiladas, eggplant calzones, mushroom stew, all with sides
of something, perhaps only accompanying sauce or garnish if the cook is merciful.
Dense stuff. But always good.
And then a break. The diners (those that can walk) stagger away from the table
to go and burden the outhouse, or merely to seek respite from the carnage. But
there is always dessert -- theyll be back. Crepes cajetas, brownies with
raspberry sauce, peaches in red wine, even apple crisp, follow in the cooks
demented trajectory. Duty calls. Someones got to do it.
After that is cocktail hour number two -- nips, usually, upwards of five kinds.
Perhaps more wine, occasionally chocolates. Some psycho raids The Green Bag
for candy. Hungry?
And later, quite some time later over dying embers (okay, I admit stretching
the definition), there is tea, cocoa, likely, Scotch. Surfeit, and a nighty-night
to all. Seven. No wonder most of us pee several times before dawn.
Did I mention dishes?
Though the technology would seem incongruous with the elevated artfulness of
the food itself, the means for preparing it are no less well thought out. Years
ago, Bill Lewis brought linguini with shrimp sauce fra diavolo in double boil-in
bags, heated it in a pot of boiling water whilst garlic bread roasted in its
foil wrapper, and when he was done, he had no dishes to do. Jaws recently busy
devouring the contents hung open at the sheer genius of his foresight. Since
then, edible wrappers, lots of foil, humble imitation of Bills technique,
and other tricks have all contributed to the cooks reputation for both
culinary and technical magic.
Not that we shirk the right means for any particular specialty. Michaels
famous French toast must, of course, fry in butter while the maple syrup heats
in water being boiled for later dish duty. My enchiladas will leave a brutalized
pan, but Im likely to wrap it back in its original foil and save it for
civilization. Theres dodging, and then theres dodging.
All of this is, of course, quite beside the point. One would get the impression
we cook to inflict harm on each other, or that we are driven to excess, crazed
by a competitive streak gone bad. That our meal could be measured in cubic yards
would seem a purpose in and of itself. But its just love. Spilling out
abundantly.
When the first one up (usually Michael) starts the coffee, it is an act of giving
of the purest form, free of ulterior motive, and of vanity. When the lunch cook
plans a hot meal, knowing full well itll likely be on a bushwhack and
thus require lugging a stove, its the thought of the resultant smiles
that keeps the smile on their own face. And when not one, but three types of
hot sauce are packed to accompany the jalapeno poppers, or when various fresh
fruits are sliced into sangria, or when organic prunes and raisins bump
shoulders amidst brown sugar, Drambuie and cream to raise a breakfast of Irish
oatmeal to giddy heights, its in an effort to invoke Valhalla for these
warriors of the Vale of Tears whom you love so well.
We cook to honor each other. To reward our brethren for their efforts and humor,
and to repay them for the honor they do you by counting yourself among their
rarified company. How could we not strive for memorable excellence with such
a table to serve?
Of late, teamwork has blurred the roles, or perhaps become a quiet form of applause.
Where once we were all content to bask, whale-like, before the fire, while the
author of that nights tale of gluttony shuffled off into the dark to do
the dishes that heralded the end of their duties and the beginning of their
own cycle of appreciation, now we often volunteer to help the weary cook, or
even to relieve them of the responsibility. No system has of yet declared itself,
but the shift from compartmentalized acts of contribution and acts of acceptance
to a more egalitarian brotherhood of sous chefs is profound. Shared meals are
even planned into the schedule, originally just for the fairness of the apportionment
of duties, but increasingy appreciated for the opportunities to play at the
complementing of one anothers efforts.
Not that we disliked the rotating, full-service, zero-payment experience --
talk of Valhalla! But our appreciation for one another has grown over the years
into something which needs action to be expressed. And the cooperative nature
of these dinnertime partnerships has actually toned down the excess some. Perhaps
because each of the chefs knows what one goes through and wishes to spare their
partner, where they might have been merciless upon themself alone. Or maybe
just because were older and can no longer eat a horse. And the wagon train.
Which is to say, the entire contents of Jans Spinach Soup -- it took us
three days just to make a dent!
Regardless, its our own nouvelle cuisine, and its about time. One
could even say its restored an appreciation for the meals in the palates
of these jaded voyagers.
We left Henderson Cabin cleaner than it had probably been in years. Maybe since
it was built. The mice were left to their paper towel-lined drawer, but the
one with all the utensils, that theyd despoiled with their bodily excretions
over years of foraging, was taken outside, disassembled, cleaned and disinfected,
reassembled more securely, and everything in it washed in very hot water. Incredible
objects were unearthed from a firepit choked by years of throwing damn anything
in there -- broken window glass, unrecognizable metal objects, the inevitable
cans and bottles, mountains of ashes. The cabin was swept under the beds, the
beds made, and the shelves full of years of leftovers arranged meaningfully.
Just before the plane arrived, tulip bulbs were planted in carefully chosen
spots, a well-preserved and stunning surprise to all there, but for the most
gracious soul, who brought them.
There is that in all of us worthy of praise. More worthy, perhaps, when one
does not seek that praise, even wishes their acts unnoticed. But it is the nature
of these men on these trips to be aware of the hearts of our companions, and
praise them in their way. Maybe not by name and in words, though I find myself
writing more and more as the import of these years rises from the depths of
my subconsciousness into awareness. There are other means at our disposal.
One of them is the way we conduct ourselves in all that we do, the surprises
and gifts we bring to spring on the rest, the tales we share around the groaning
table. And one of them is the cooking of a meal for the assembled group, taken
to a level commensurate with the characters of those who sip their cocktails
awaiting your revelation. No trivial bowl of calories can express the esteem
in which you hold these men. And so you strive for something unexpected, something
memorable. Something that, for a few forkfulls, will be to their mouths and
eyes what their companionship is to you.
Dinners ready -- bring it on!