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Okay, so I’m not much of a food stylist or food photographer. However, I wanted to post an image that represents one of the good things about being back home — being able to cook in my own kitchen. Don’t get me wrong — I very much enjoyed cooking over a campstove or a camp fire in my “kitchen” under the redwoods, or high above the crashing surf of the Pacific — but there’s also something nice about being home and able to bake a pie with locally grown fruit. It’s also nice being able to go to my favourite whole food store and find the things that I’m looking for, instead of having to improvise using whatever I can find in a general store somewhere in the back country where it seems that the locals must live on prefab meals with names such as cup-o-junk or some such thing. In fact, I actually have a bit of a horror story that I should share — and maybe this is a good time for it. In the interest of doing no harm to local economies and all, let’s leave the name of the town and the store out of this.

During our wanderings, my friend and I found ourselves out in the boonies somewhere, short on vegetables after making the grave mistake of not seizing the opportunity to fill the cooler at the last general store with a good produce section. Arriving at this unnamed town, we paid a visit to the local general store. Sure, at cursory glance, it seemed well-stocked, but with about 40 varieties of sugar-coated cereals, every kind of “helper” to boil up with hamburger, and most every prefab noodle, rice, stuffing, or potato dish that one could dream of,. . . but when we went searching for the produce section, we found nothing apart from a few wizzled onions in a bin. I swiftly proclaimed, “Surely the denizens of this region must consume something more than dehydrated potato flakes!” I was soon proven right, in a manner of speaking, when my friend discovered an old-fashioned wooden cooler with glass doors and big chrome handles that looked more like they belonged on the doors of a ’58 Chevrolet. Please note that I use the term “cooler” rather loosely as it was more like a food locker and did not seem the least bit cool.

Being the chief cook and bottle-washer on our odyssey, I perused through the offerings which consisted of a couple of dozen wrinkled carrots, some punky red bell peppers with green stems going to mush, and a little bag of broccoli that looked fairly fresh…or at least somewhat crispy, but smelled *very* weird. My friend sniffed at the broccoli, then snorted and raised his eyebrows in obvious disdain,… but I thought, “What the heck, stir-frying should probably kill off any unfriendly organisms that have grown in this uncoolest of coolers.”

How wrong could I be?

Apparently, it would seem — very.

The smell of the cooking broccoli soon drove my friend out the door of the little housekeeping unit where we were staying. I have to admit that I too wished to flee, but largely due to embarrassment and stubbornness, I convinced myself that the noxious odor would subside once the broccoli started to cook.

No such luck. No… if anything, the… stench…(let’s not mince words).. just intensified as it mingled with the wizzled onions, wrinkled carrots, and soggy bell peppers. If there is such a thing as a culinary horror story, it was occurring right before my eyes and nose in that dark little galley kitchen that evening. To say I was appalled at what I had created would be putting things mildly indeed. It felt like I had, as in some tale from The Mabinogian, produced something akin to a pot of boiling zombie demons. Girding my loins with culinary pride, I rather bravely (or some might say, stupidly), served myself up a small bowl of stir-fried mess to “go first” to see if I would die — this before considering offering it to my friend.

It wasn’t good… but while it wasn’t exactly “outright bad” either, it certainly wasn’t anything that I would place before a good friend. To his credit, my friend actually overcame his revulsion to the reek of tainted broccoli and came back into the room to tentatively sample a bite. In retrospect, I believe this may have been his misguided but valiant attempt to gauge whether I might survive the night or require transport to the nearest hospital to have my stomach pumped. His advice after sampling the broccoli was, “I wouldn’t eat that.”

I took his advice and didn’t finish my bowl. We went hungry that night — or rather, we dined on some Lay’s potato chips (a prudent purchase along with the rancid vegetables). I believe we also split a couple of Clif Bars (Note to self: When traveling in the back country of anywhere, always pack a half-dozen Clif Bars. You never know when you will *need* them).

Admittedly, the above situation was a most uncommon occurrence throughout most of our wanderings. Truly, in even the smallest of towns, we discovered that one might stumble upon some kind and wonderful soul who maintains an outpost of sanity where one can stock up on tofu, organic yogurt and fresh produce. They may be few and far between, but they exist — and when we weary, vegetable-deprived travelers come upon them, we should take a moment to salute them for their tenacity in hanging on at the edges of the culinary wilderness.

So, yes, indeed, I have reason to celebrate being back home in my own kitchen, especially after having paid a visit to the local whole food store to re-provision the house with edibles. All is right with my world.

Tags: scary food, cooking in the boonies