Small Feasts
Seven days in Maine without a kitchen, a roof, or very much cash. The resulting meals and the magic thereof.
For one week we ate impeccably.
We did not have a kitchen. We had a propane camping grill the size of a board game, a rocket stove that could fit into a pocket, and campfire. In the back of the van there was a plastic tube full of cooking supplies, a cooler (containing nut butters, yoghurt and hummus), two crates of “the necessaries” — spices, oils, salt, pepper, onions, garlic, lentils, quinoa, canned beans— and one bag of fresh vegetables. We had very little money to spend.
For one week of the summer, we were in Maine.
At the end of July, one of my friends, two of his friends and myself drove six hundred miles north. We were all under the age of twenty-one; I was the oldest at twenty. We went because it was Maine. In varying degrees, we all had an inexplicable attachment to that place. My friend and I were affected the most. His two friends enthusiastically agreed to join us. So sans parents or guardians (but using my parent’s van), we took the highway up through Pennsylvania, New York, Vermont and New Hampshire. Then we crossed the Maine state line. Arriving in the evening at a campground on the Midcoast, we strung up our hammocks and slept outside.
We did go for the love of Maine. But — two of us, at least — went for a love of food as well. And that did not steer us wrong.
I known the the boy, my friend, with whom I went to Maine for years and years —since I was five and he was three. But our families were friends more and than he and I were. We had both interned at the same farm (during different seasons), worked at the same cafe, and we both were vegetarians. Food and cooking were how we made money (albeit, not very much) and how we made our play. Dinner was a chance to experiment. Shopping at markets were miniature adventures. Since the beginning of the summer we had been cooking together more and more frequently — at the cafe and in my own kitchen.
The two friends he invited we called the O’Cabbotts, a blending of their surnames because we teased that they’d eventually end up together. They were carnivores, and not quite as connoisseurous about their fare as we were. But Mrs. O’Cabbott could light fires, a skill I admired. We left them to their seared flesh and they left us to our natural food stores and farmers markets.
Because that is where the best food can be got, in my opinion (except if you can do straight to the farm). I can heartily recommend the Brunswick Market, Rising Tide Natural Market in Darmariscotta, Rosemont Markets in Portland, Bath Natural Market (in Bath, of course), and Morning Glory Foods in Bruswick.
My friend — his nickname now is Farmer Boy — and I trolled these places with enthusiasm. We would croon over the things we would find; golden beets, varieties of honey, dark cherry balsamic vinegar. In one natural food store there were nut butter making machines; pull a handle and the nuts are ground into butter right before your eyes. Between the two of us, Farmer Boy and I tried to sample every flavor of kombucha (a fermented tea beverage) that we could find. Every time we found a cheese counter we surveyed it with mouths watering. I got disproportionately excited when Mr. O’Cabbott spotted a raw honeycomb at Rosemont Market and instantly declared I was buying it. Both of the O’Cabbotts waited while we decided on produce for supper; I was too enthused by the rainbow chard and fresh herbs to notice if they were being patient or not.
Our first night, we made curry. We know what we’re doing with cumin, cardamom, cinnamon, nutmeg, coriander, tumeric and curry powder. The beauty of a curry, I think, is the complexity. Farmer Boy mixed the spices; I chopped the onions, garlic, squash, carrots, and tomatoes. Together, we snapped the green beans. In a cast iron skillet over the propane grill we sauteed everything until the green beans were starting to lose their crispness. Then we threw in handfuls of lentil sprouts (brought with us from home), the tomatoes, and fresh basil. I think I topped my own portion with a dollop of yoghurt and extra sea salt.
The second morning in Maine, Farmer Boy and I drove forty miles just for bread. It came from a bakery on a road that is never busy, not far from the Tacoma Lakes. We entered the room where the bread was made — which is one door removed from the baker’s abode. We put our money in an old cookie tin and our bread in paper bags. There was no one to man the shop; the loaves and pastries waited to be claimed. Our first slices were eaten in the car before we even left the driveway. Farmer Boy carefully set the loaves upright on his knee and sliced. Without butter or jam we devoured them gleefully. Bread can — and should — be an experience. I’d argue that it isn’t worth it otherwise.
Those loaves became part of two picnics.
The first was eaten after an impromptu drive down to a beach that looked out onto Broad Sound and Potts Harbor. All we had to eat were leftovers from our drive up to Maine: chipotle black bean hummus, sliced carrots and beets, tomato, bread, and homemade fruit and nut bars. I count that meal as one of the happiest meals of my life. We sat in the sun, Mr. and Mrs. O’Cabbott caught tiny crabs like twelve year old children, and Farmer Boy and I named them. We joked we would take them back to camp and boil them for supper (we didn’t).
The second picnic was also eaten on a beach, several days later. We hiked two miles to the coast. There was a light weight skillet and a rocket stove in Farmer’s Boy’s backpack; I carried the food and water. Mr. O’Cabbott made a wall of sand so the rocket stove’s flame wouldn’t be blown out. Farmer Boy positioned and lit the stove. I sliced the bread, tomato, avocado and goat cheese cheddar. Mrs. O’Cabbott took pictures. We layered the bread with our chosen toppings, put them on the warmed skillet, and Farmer Boy tenderly flipped them with just a knife and his fingers. We made grilled cheese on a beach. And, save one other grilled cheese (also made with Farmer Boy), it was the finest sandwich I’ve consumed. The locale may have had something to do with it.
You can have fancy equipment and make an exceptional meal, but you don’t need it. The rocket stove cost $20 with fuel and is nothing more than a single, unguarded burner. The skillet was nothing impressive, just camping material. We did not bring butter to spread on the bread. We had just a sharp knife and a cutting board; no plates even. Everything was made sitting on a blanket on the ground. All we had were the barest basics. The quality of the meal came not from the preparation; it came from the ingredients and the company.
The whole trip, we ate indoors only twice. Once was at a smoothie and juice cafe in Portland (the sadly now closed Roost House of Juice). I think we might have gone to Portland just to eat there; the bookstores, markets, shops and art museum may have been peripheral.
The second time we ate indoors was the same day and the result of poor planning. It was the only so-so meal of the entire week: Thai food for supper. We were “hangry” — hungry to the point that we were no longer being very nice or thinking very clearly. The Thai place was our last resort. We had mediocre curries and stir fries, cracked open our fortune cookies, read our fortunes aloud, paid and left. We were pacified and had learned out lesson: do not let ourselves get that hungry. But I do not regret that meal; we still laughed and we were fed.
At the campsite, we grilled corn by wrapping it in aluminium foil and setting it near (and sometimes accidentally in) the fire. One night we created a frittata out of fresh eggs, rainbow chard, chives, onion and manchego. It was cooked in a dutch oven, set directly in the campfire. Another night we had salad and roasted potatoes. Both were covered in two concoctions of Farmer Boy’s making: a honey ginger balsamic for the salad, and for the potatoes his own blend of spices that I can never remember but frequently request.
Out for the day in Camden, we heated ginger and carrot soup (purchased at a little corner store) on the rocket stove in the back of the van, in the rain. It accompanied a simple tomato salad and walnut butter sandwiches with ginger and honey. It was nothing special, but it was exactly what we wanted.
Farmer Boy and I were the cooks. The O’Cabbotts could appreciate it — at least mildly — but they didn’t join in beyond grilling their chicken or heating up a can of corn. By the time of our trip, Farmer Boy and I had cooked together so often that our palates were becoming similarly attuned. At farmers markets we plotted our dinners, fathoming prospective tastes and textures. When preparing a meal, we’d sample the dish and confer about the flavors. More salt. More curry. Needs basil. If only we had parsley and fresh lemon…
Then there was the last meal, on the last day.
Our last day in Maine was Mr. O’Cabbott’s sixteenth birthday. We drove into town to buy him a slice of blueberry coffee cake, because how better to wish someone happy birthday than with food? Leaving them to go on our own adventure, Farmer Boy and I drove two hours further north to visit two farms: Salt Water and Four Seasons (the farm of famed agriculturist Eliot Coleman). It was a long day. We returned with kale and very fresh wild blueberries. On the drive home, our plan to make pancakes for dinner — and top them with the blueberries — was overturned. We were too worn out and it would take too long. So instead we stopped at a market in Damariscotta and procured some tapenade (made with sunflower seeds, mint, and figs), quinoa and honey bars for an appetizer, and four bottles of kombucha. There was still bread and tomatoes left.
When we arrived back at camp it was raining. Pouring. The O’Cabbotts had already eaten, so I set about cooking our kale. I wasn’t about to let the rain stop me. Mr. O’Cabbott had the propane grill sitting on the ground under his hammock tarp. That was my only option. In the back of the van, I chopped the kale and several cloves of garlic, tossed it with a little olive oil, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, and raced over to stove. Rain fell into the skillet, so the kale was unintentionally steamed as well as sauteed.
The rain stopped not long after I had finished cooking. Farmer Boy and I packed the red basket with our foodstuffs (tapenade, tomatoes, kale, bread), gathered a blanket and a propane lamp, and went to the campground’s dock. If it had not been so cold I would have dipped my toes into the river. But it was cold and the lower half of me was already damp. Even wearing three layers, I shivered.
Yet that’s not what I remember when I think about that evening. I remember how we topped slices of bread with kale, tomatoes and tapenade. I remember how we promised to go get the blueberries and honeycomb for dessert. I remember that never happened. There were more important things to be done.
I doubt many people are faced with the worry that the first time they kiss a person it will be with a piece of kale stuck between two of their back molars. That was my position. But by the time my fears might have been realized I’d forgot about them completely and it didn’t matter anymore.
The last breakfast we ate in Maine was consumed when we were leaving. Farmer Boy rolled down the window, breathing the last of the Maine air, and closed it when we crossed the bridge into Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I can still taste the granola, coconut milk, cocoa nibs and dried cherries. The bread made it until Massachusetts, when we put together walnut butter and honey sandwiches to be eaten on the road. The blueberries were saved for several days (we called them “vegan caviar” so the O’Cabbotts wouldn’t touch them) and at last served with pancakes, over which we drizzled maple syrup Farmer Boy bought for me in Bennington, Vermont. One bottle of kombucha was consumed not long after we crossed the line into Pennsylvania. I set aside another bottle, our favorite flavor, and one week after the supper on the dock Farmer Boy and I shared it. I still have several slices of honeycomb left. I’m a saving them, like edible souvenirs.
When people ask me about our trip to Maine I’m not sure how to describe it. There is so much I could say. But this seems the best reply, the week contained in one sentence: we had very good food. Not everyone can appreciate our love of Maine, not everyone would sleep outdoors for a week (at least, not happily), or drive for two hours to see a farm. But I dare you to find a person with halfway decent tastebuds who doesn’t have some regard for good food.
And the food we made was nothing revolutionary. I have no recipes to share because we never used one. Instinct was the main ingredient, and our supplies were basic. All we really needed was a sharp knife, a cutting board, a skillet and a spoon. Sometimes we had a fire. We made food that can be made by anyone, almost anywhere.
If you want some, you should first find real food — food that is not far removed from its original condition or location. Cook it tenderly. Outside, if possible. Season as desired.
