Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
The days were hot; sometimes it seemed that we were in a desert: the sun beating down
with yellow meanness; the flat seas reflecting the oppressive heat, and the silence was most
depressing. Nothing moved. All was still, flattened by the heavy heat. There was a thick
haze across the horizon at this time, and the castles in the pale yellow clouds seemed so
real in this dreamlike state. We could see Pegasus flying around on his great, white wings
to great castles in the still, blue sky. Even the sea birds sat in dejected huddles, motionless
in the water, conserving their strength. The fishing line drooped down into the depths, long
forgotten. Tempers flared easily down below in the heat of the cabin. Remarks cut to the
core only to be apologized for later.
I knew that psychologically, a good plate of food was needed at times like this, and on one
such occasion I remembered my dear friend Jeri and her efforts to dry assorted food for
this trip. I took out the pressure cooker from its locker, filled it half with water, and found a
brown paper packet with “dried turkey” written on the side. I threw in a couple of handfuls.
I added some dried carrots and peas as well. A cup of brown rice and some assorted dried
beans, salt and pepper, bay leaves and dried garlic completed the concoction. I set this on
the stove and let it splutter away for thirty minutes at the lowest setting. It was extravagant,
this flagrant waste of propane, but it was a greatly needed treat.
At first, Penny turned her cute little nose up at it, “Euuu! What is this?” she enquired, like
some spoilt rotten, little school girl.
“Stew, turkey stew, my girl, eat it; it's good for you.”
“Yeah right, tastes like stewed boots if you asked me.”
I felt a flicker of annoyance. “Well, I'm sorry I don't have a fresh turkey to cook or the
talent to make it taste like your cooking, young lady.”
Gavin was whaling into his share of the stew, keeping diplomatically quiet.
“Look, Gavin likes it,” I said, defensively.
“Yes, he would eat anything stewed,” she crowed back smirking.
“What's that supposed to mean?” he answered looking up, unsmiling.
“Oh nothing,” she said, looking away impatiently. Gavin and I felt silly; our lovely guest
seemed to have lost interest in us and our companionship. I felt especially crushed. Penny
picked up her bowl and tried the stew again. It had cooled down some, and as with all food
that has been given a chance to cool off, it tasted ten times better. “This is because our taste
buds are programmed to taste more effectively at low temperatures as opposed to scalding,
hot ones,” I theorized sagely.
