Camp Cook
Illustration by Lynn Campbell
Up before anyone, our cook begins mucking about
in the pitch black ungodly predawn in earnest preparation.
He primes the lantern, opens the valve, strikes a wooden match
below the hissing mantle, illuminates the canvas kitchen.
Counting aloud, “One one-hundred, two one-hundred…”,
he pumps thirty strokes into the Coleman stove, awakening me
from the arms of sleep. Another valve opens, a lit match
touched to escaping gas vapors puff three burners aglow.
His noise parade methodically continues. Coffee pot and
two cast iron pans are placed on burners. Hickory smoked bacon
retrieved from the cooler and layered in one pan.
The bearded maestro then beats batter almost into orbit
with a wooden spoon. Looking over at me, I shut my eyes,
pretend his antics unnoticed, the only sounds coming
from my side of the tent faint stomach rumblings
initiated by last night’s ivory stew. Bacon sizzles.
A pulse brings the coffee pot to life. Slowly certain smells
begin to permeate and linger throughout the tent.
While pancakes take shape, I drift back off, already a half hour
shorted of sleep. Hands shift on the clock. My fresh dream
shatters when the toothless chef hollers, “Rise and shine!
Daylight in the swamp!”