Lemon, Oil, Salt and Pepper

Camping for Lex’s birthday, I set myself the task of not planning.

For camping in particular, this is a challenge for me; camping, by my best estimation, is largely a game of not-forgetting the most things possible, and conceding that, though you absolutely will forget something, at least (you hope) it is not the tent (I speak from experience). As someone who loves to plan and suffers a terrible memory, I make lists on lists, check them three or four times and then cross-check and spot-check what I’ve put in the car with what I've written down.

At worst, I am a control freak; at best, I am helpful. I know this. And in honor of my dear friend, I was trying to lean more into the second half of that little personality quirk for this trip, which was, in all honesty, beautifully coordinated by Lex, and a stellar product of group cohesion and contributions besides. But I wasn’t willing to sacrifice camp cooking in my attempt to be a more palatable person, and I knew the food element was a priority for the birthday girl as well. So I settled myself with four things I would quadruple check on my list: oil, salt, pepper and lemon.

Oil was in abundance; everyone had the thought that oil was not something that could be forgotten, and so we had four full bottles. I had a stick of butter too, for sourdough pancakes– so there was no shortage of fat. Lex, bless her, brought a plastic bag of Maldon salt, so my under-salted food fears were too unfounded. But no one but me brought pepper, and no one else brought a lemon either. There was not a lot of either: the pepper a possibly decades-old shaker that lived with my camping gear, and just one lemon to last us the weekend. But that was part of the pleasure. We made do.

Salmon with Potatoes and Peppers

Thursday night was local Maine salmon, potatoes and sweet peppers, mostly purchased at the local grocery on our way in. The on-site farm store offered us an unexpected treat: garlic scapes that refused our (albeit half-hearted) attempts to resist their seductive twists and turns.

The peppers sauteed with a handful of scapes, salt, pepper. When they were done, the salmon went into the hot pan (oil and butter), skin side down, and then flipped to reveal the crispiest skin you ever did see. The scapes joined the fish last, with more butter, and a squeeze of lemon to finish; they caramelized into something like a sauce, and their garlicky bite luxuriated against the sweetness of the peppers and the salt of the fish. The potatoes finished late, as potatoes often do: perfectly crispy, smoky and soft inside–ridiculously satisfying. 

We ate it all. This is a perk–or downside, depending who you are–of camping: you MUST finish everything you eat, because never has anyone remembered to bring tupperware on a camping trip.

Hot Dogs and Veggie Skewers

Friday night (happy 4th, no kings!) was a glut of food that was demolished, with only a few scraps tossed in the backseat trash bag. Vegetarian hot dogs on the cast iron, potato buns toasted on the fire, and the chef-d'œuvre–vegetable skewers of eggplant, zucchini, mushroom, tomato and onion. Drizzled with oil and salt and pepper and grilled directly on the grate, orange flames melted the veg into near-creamy, smoky perfection. 

We poked a few holes in the other eggplant with leftover skewers, covered it in oil and wrapped it in tinfoil before tossing it directly into the fire, where Talia, Shachar and I impatiently removed it every three minutes until at last it emerged a flaccid shadow of its former self, the skin pierced easily, the meat inside brown and grey and luscious. We ate it straight from the tin foil with plastic forks, sprinkled with salt.

Creamy Beans and Crusty Bread

And finally; at camp alone, Shachar and I conspired to concoct a King of Beans bean dish. After wrapping a stale baguette in tinfoil and splashing it with water, we threw it on the fire to de-stale (which, somewhat surprisingly, it did). Once again over the fire, in the cast iron, onions cooked down to sweetness (thanks to Shachar for her patience), and were then joined by chopped garlic and chili crisp. Butter beans went in with a splash of water, salt, pepper and spinach. We took it off the heat, unfolded our mostly-revived baguette (some soggy spots remained–a kink to work out in that particular TikTok technique), and swirled in half a container of labne in the beans, along with the rest of our lemon. 

It was, needless to say, excellent, and when our fellow campers returned from their outing, there was more than enough to share. 

Simple Cooking

For each meal, we laid out all the food on Lex’s green checkered tablecloth (what a thing to remember!), and, complete with the soft yellow glow of the camp lamp, each was a feast worthy of Kote the innkeeper before the lunch crowd comes in; of Sam carrying a pot the whole journey because it makes dinner that much better; of bread and jam for Frances, all spread out, each bite perfection. The key to these perfect fictional cooks is, of course, the beautiful simplicity of their meals.

I consider myself a good cook, and I’m pleased to say most of those I feed would say the same, but simplicity is not my strong suit.

I like to throw every seasoning I have into a soup; pile pastas with four different types of cheese; fill a salad with all the acid my humble kitchen holds. I like candles lit, curtains closed, table set and food arranged on the counter, ready to be swept out by the time the guests arrive. 

Camping challenges this on several levels. Restricted to only that which you remember (and/or can fit in your car), small luxuries like scented candles, vinegar and paprika tend to fall by the wayside–and, I argue, they should. Perhaps even more significantly (for me, at least), you lose the piece of control that beautifully organized kitchens afford you. Camping, there is only so much you can plan. Faced with the smoke, the fire, and the dirt, armed only with lemon, oil, salt and pepper, camping cooking more often than not puts you more at the mercy of the wind than the New York Times cooking app. 

And so often outfitted such–the pristine appliances my sweet kitchen holds, the wealth of recipes the internet offers–I tend to forget the roots of good cooking: put something near a fire and see what happens. Use what you have, but not too much because you might run out. Make enough for everyone, and more if you can; eat it all, because you don’t know when you’ll get something so simply delicious again.