Chapter 7: Food, glorious food. And water.
The camp set-up. From left to right: Visitors bedroom & postie bike garage, kitchen & store, outdoor dining, our bedroom.
For our second camping trip, we were way better organised, especially in terms of the cooking set-up. Smash had made a pine framed bench with a stainless-steel sink and we put a bucket underneath to catch run-off. I’d been on Gumtree again and bought a timber outdoor setting and an old pine pantry. I’d also scored a cast iron BBQ plate off a woman named Pam who insisted I come and get it between 1PM and 1.30PM and if there was a red Commodore in the driveway when I pulled up, I was to make another appointment. On arrival, the driveway was clear; Pam stood in the carport, arms crossed, and indicated with a jerk of her head to follow her to a garden shed. The plate weighed a ton; wordlessly, we carried it to my car. When I closed the tailgate and handed over the money, Pam said, ‘Good riddance’ and walked off. I desperately wanted to know what the plate had done that had offended her so, and why all the secrecy, but she wasn’t in a chatty mood. People are mysterious. On the way home I imagined a few different scenarios involving broken toes and slipped discs.
Meanwhile, back at the camp, Smash had rigged up a 25-litre container of water on a pulley to gravity feed the sink. Even though the flow of water was little more than a dribble, it made a huge difference to the cooking and cleaning experience, as did the blocks of timber we took down to level all the benches – no more peas and zucchini wheels rolling off into the dirt. We had three methods of cooking and heating: the camp gas stove, the borrowed Weber (thanks, Helen), and the open fire. Smash also wanted to build a BBQ out of some leftover concrete blocks lying near the caravan. You can never have too many methods of cooking, and besides, building a barby out of rubbish is the sort of fun activity one does while camping, especially when a friend drops over and gets trapped into helping. Smash and Ray thought they’d use parts of the doghouse – like the metal grate door, perfect for a grill to hold the firewood. The dog house turned out to be very sturdily built, and after a lot of banging and swearing, Ray went and fetched his generator and angle grinder. I stood to one side and made owl noises as the sparks flew toward the grass. We were under a total fire ban and I didn’t want to end up on the news like the guy with the mower. Finally, the door came off, then they created a chimney out of smaller concrete blocks and placed the heavy cast iron plate on top. I mentioned how the whole thing had been built on the same angle as the sloping ground and was assured it was intentional – fat run off. The lean on the BBQ bothered me, but it worked a treat, and the concrete sides were useful for warming plates on.
BBQ with built-in run-off feature.
We’d arrived with the trailer chockablock full of food – heaps of it, enough to feed an army for a week. Too much, really. Not having enough food for any given occasion is one of Smash’s greatest fears. Every Christmas, Easter, birthday – in fact, even for the family dinner, he will ask about ten times: ‘Are you sure we’ve got enough food?’ and will often sneak out to the shops to buy extra sausages or steaks or cake or potatoes. (Never worries about not having enough lettuce though.)
I hate waste - it’s a hangover from childhood. My father, who is Methodist, grew up in a post-war, thrifty era and my siblings and I understood it was shameful, sinful even, to waste anything, but especially food. Once, at a BBQ at our place, I cut the fat off my sirloin and pushed it to the side of my plate. Toward the end of the meal Dad gestured toward it with his knife and asked: ‘What are your plans for that?’
What were my plans? What, like sending it to a good school? Taking it on holiday? At the very least, using it to make a hearty stock?
I told him he could have his way with it, and he spent a good five minutes teasing every last thread of meat out of the fat with archaeological precision. Even if he’s full, he’ll go the extra yard to ensure nothing goes in the bin and I find myself scraping the plates clean while he’s on the toilet rather than attract his curious/judgemental stare.
Over the years, Smash and I have come to a sort of compromise with our differing views on how much food is enough – basically, he buys too much and I freeze a lot of meals or we send guests home with party packs. He grew up in a large, Catholic family – five boys and one girl. Mealtimes were charged affairs – a lot of eyeing off each other’s portions while grace was said, then it was head down shovelling, some elbowing, even a bit of stabbing with forks. His saintly Mum who worked full-time as a nurse, made a cake most nights and to this day, Smash can tell which is the biggest slice from across the room. He is one of the most generous people I’ve ever met, but if you take something off his plate, it triggers him. He’s never gone so far as to stab anyone with his fork, but he grips it very tightly.
With camping, there’s the added concern that there are no shops to dash out to so Smash wants to take more of everything, in case of visitors. Not everyone would go to these lengths while camping, and I guess it depends on how much you like cooking. I really love cooking. It’s often the highlight of my day, so making do with baked beans or noodles is a bit of a downer. I also love feeding people – not in a fetishist, chubby chaser sense, more in a mothering way. (Although I do get off on hearing someone make that, ‘ormmmhrrrrhh’ noise when they taste something yummy.)
When we camp, I usually take down the makings of a meal for every night so we don’t have to go into town at all, except on Friday, which is when the Fisho truck comes to Stanthorpe. They park outside one of the pubs and have the freshest produce – so much fresher than anything we’ve bought in Brisbane. Prawns that smell of the sea. Fish with eyes bulging and shiny. Sashimi fresh kingfish and calamari, and once, skin on Barramundi fillets that stayed fresh after 3 days when we over-ordered and forgot they were in the esky. Some of our most memorable camp meals are thanks to the Fisho. Crispy, breadcrumbed oysters, Spanish style prawns poached in olive oil, garlic, chilli and parsley with crusty white bread. Bouillabaisse, crabmeat pasta, and tender calamari tossed in flour then quickly cooked on the bar-b-cue with oil and oregano.
In the first few months of camping, we ate a lot of meat. Way too much meat. Once the sun went over the hill, especially when it was very cold, dinner just didn’t seem as satisfying without some animal protein, and eating meat was a primal, if unethical and unhealthy desire we fulfilled.
For our first dinner party, we decided to do a leg of lamb using the cast iron camp oven in the open fire. We’d had it cooked this way at Lou and Marianne’s once, and the meat had been incredibly tender and juicy. I’d never used a camp oven before, but figured, how hard could it be? Lamb is a pretty forgiving meat, nice and fatty, hard to dry out. I put onions on the bottom of the pot, then the seasoned lamb, some garlic, bay leaf and rosemary, half a bottle of white wine and some stock. I started the fire around 2PM and once the coals were nice and hot, put the camp oven in then pushed some coals back around the pot. I kept an eye on it, fed the fire, pushed more coals around the pot as needed. Leaning on my shovel, watching the coals pulse with heat, I felt pretty damn good. Cooking over fire was so much more satisfying than shoving a pot in a boring old Smeg. A while later, I was peeling potatoes when I smelt a burning smell. I wasn’t too concerned, it was an open fire after all, and there’d been plenty of liquid in the pot. Smash was against the idea of taking the lid off – If you’re lookin’, it ain’t cookin’, as they say, but I thought I’d just take a quick peek, to make sure there was still some liquid.
I wish I’d taken a photo. At first, I thought the lamb leg had been stolen, then I realised the bones were still there, golden and bare. There were some black, twisted strips like burnt apple skin stuck to the side of the pot, as if the meat had exploded off the bones. The onion and herbs had somehow completely disappeared. I was so stunned I laughed, nervously. It was the most remarkable case of overcooking I’ve ever seen. Smash looked devastated. Fear written all over his face, body twisting from left to right, eyes searching, as if another lamb leg might magically appear. I tried to calm him, but he was too far gone. His worst waking nightmare.
I told him I’d take care of it; everything would be okay. I led him away from the fire and spoke in a calm, firm voice like a paramedic. Then I jumped in the car and drove at breakneck speed to the top of the hill to get phone reception. I sent Ceccy a text, fumbling my phone in a panic. ‘Lamb’s fucked. Got any snags?’
Snags saved the day, as they have for generations of mankind. Over dinner I asked Ray how he did his lamb in the camp oven. Any tips? With grace, he explained, there’d been too much heat. I hadn’t realised how hot the coals could get (and stay), and how indirect heat is the way to go, not snuggling the pot in amongst a burning ring of hell fire. It took weeks to get the crust off the bottom of the camp oven – baking soda, boiling water, steel wool – we even considered taking the grinder to it. There are still bits of enamelled lamb on there.
Over the next few months we continued to develop the kitchen and cooking experience. Vegetarian meals were incorporated without anyone fainting – curries, soups and pasta. Smash bought me a Waeco portable fridge freezer for Christmas that could be plugged in to the car or run off a generator. So happy. Even in Stanthorpe it gets hot in the daytime in Summer, and there are flies. The Waeco was like a big esky with flip top lids; we used both sides as a fridge: one for dairy and meat, the other for vegetables and fruit. There was still a lot of Tetris action going on, but oh so good to leave the wet bread and slimy cheese behind.
Carting water became a royal PITA. It’s heavy! After the first few camping trips, I ordered a 15 000 litre poly tank and had it delivered. The delivery guy was amused that there was no house or roof to hook it up to and made some comment about the drought, as everyone does. ‘Where do you want it?’ he asked, giving a snorty nose laugh. I asked him to just leave it on its side; we would take care of it. He pulled a ‘If you say so’ face and took off, shaking his head.
We had a plan. We levelled a pad near where we ‘might’ build a shed one day and got a delivery of water from the Blue Topaz Caravan Park who deliver ‘13 000 litres of fresh, drinking water’. The water tasted a bit strange - ‘Essence of Storm King Dam’ according to Josh, but it was so good to have it there. We filled the 25 litre containers and carried them back and forth on a trolley, from proposed shed site to camp site - still a bit of work, but a lot less than carting it from Brisbane to Nundubbermere.
Things were progressing. It was hard work and not everyone’s cup of tea, I’m sure, but we had a lot of fun with it. It reminded me of playing house as a kid, or pretending to be pioneers in the wilderness. This childlike enthusiasm lightened mundane tasks like collecting wood and washing ourselves in the midday sun as close to the fire as we could get. Our expectations of comfort and ease were low, so little things were deeply satisfying, like waking in the morning and lifting all the flaps on the tent, lying in bed with a cup of tea and toast, reading, feeling the breeze on our skin, seeing wildlife pass by. I imagined the charm might fade over time, especially in the kitchen. I was looking forward to having a level floor, walls that didn’t billow and flap, an indoor stove, but it’s amazing what you can achieve when you are hungry and have way too much food at your disposal. It was super delicious fun.
Washing up however, was another story.
