10:00am:
As I break the 30th egg into a pastry lined roasting dish, the boat starts lurching. I look up for the first time in hours and see we’re in a notoriously nasty stretch of open water. I smile sarcastically, yeah, looks like I missed the crew briefing on where we’re going today.
The boat is rolling violently from side to side. Three eggs escape from the pie, slide along the bench and plop to the floor. I brace against the stove, lift the dish off the bench and keep control of the contents by acting as a human gimbal. There’s nothing else I can do. Can’t put the dish down. Can’t get the pastry lid on.
The galley is open to the saloon and it’s highly likely I’m now filling the role of Entertainment Officer as well as Cook. I turn to see Barry, aged 77, grinning from ear to ear. It’s not intimidating in the slightest to cook for a former chef in the British Army. Likewise, no pressure baking scones and muffins for 10 farmers’ wives who’ve undoubtedly had a batch in the oven by 9:00am every day of their married lives, plus a china cabinet brimming with A & P Show gold medals. Thankfully, my first boat-scone disaster was causing seagull indigestion well before Mary (a sprightly 93 and making scones for over 80 years) had a chance to wet her pants laughing.
Some of the passengers are looking a bit green around the gills, but fortunately, and despite several horrendous (i.e. normal) ocean sailing trips, I’ve never been seasick. I can even clean up after others less fortunate and carry on eating my dinner. Cast iron stomach. Two months eating street food in India and my only belly problem was its increasing size.
The sea state hasn’t improved, but I can’t stand there all day trying to save a lidless bacon and egg pie. I open the oven door with my foot and shove the pie in to fend for itself. With every wave the dish hits the side of the oven and egg splatters up the walls. Hopefully, at maximum temperature, at least some eggs will set while they’re still in the dish. It’s pointless attempting anything else until we’re in more sheltered water. This is going to put me seriously behind schedule.
As soon as we get vaguely horizontal I carry on with lunch prep. Bread, ham, corned beef (cooked last night), green salad, coleslaw, beetroot, asparagus, boiled eggs, chopped red onion, pickles, chutneys, mustard, dressings. The bacon and egg pie turns out surprisingly well, if a little wedge shaped and minus a few eggs. I don’t know how the passengers can fit lunch in to be honest, it seems like only an hour or so ago since morning tea (home baking, blueberry muffins). Well, actually it was only an hour or so ago. Then there’s dishes, for 20 people. Always dishes. And peeling egg off oven walls.
1:30pm
The passengers go ashore for a couple of hours and it’s easier to work without an audience. Afternoon tea is 3:00 pm, nibbles 5:00 pm, dinner 7:00 pm. Tonight we’re having a 5kg roast pork that will probably take 6 hours in this oven. I roasted the potatoes, kumara and pumpkin this morning because there’s not enough room in the oven for both meat and vegetables. Later, while the pork is resting, I’ll blast the veges at warp factor 10 and make the gravy. I’m working as fast as I did in the restaurant and won’t get a break today. I do have a better view, but scarcely time to admire it.
Pudding dillema. Due to this morning’s sea conditions, there’s not enough time to cook the planned apricot shortcake before the roast goes in. Can’t cook it after either, because pudding must be served directly after dinner. It’ll have to be something cold.
There’s a lot of “instant” rubbish in the pantry from the previous cooks (there’s been a lot of them) that I’m loathe to use, but I have little choice today. What can I do with instant strawberry mousse to make it less heinous? There’s no ramekins or single-serve dishes of any description. I find some silicon muffin moulds, red ones. I make the mousse according to packet directions and try to achieve a taste less like wallpaper paste by adding lemon juice and a few tinned berries. Unsurprisingly, instant pink mousse looks extraordinarily hideous in red moulds. I have no idea if it will set in time. I concoct a sauce from tinned berries, cut up 4 heads of brocolli, a dozen carrots, make apple sauce and whip cream.
3:00pm
The passengers are back and ravenous. I give them leftover home baking: Ginger Crunch and Louise Cake, tea and coffee. They give me dishes. More sodding dishes.
4:00pm
It’s time to prep for nibbles. I scrub and steam open 6 dozen mussels, keep them in the half shell, slather chilli sauce and cheese on top ready for grilling, make two dips, guacamole, lay out chips, corn chips, salami, nuts, prunes, figs, apricots, grapes, crackers and 5 types of cheese.
5:00pm
I grill the mussels and stand back while the passengers get into the gin and sherry. I take a 15 minute break and interrupt a couple of over 70's snogging on the back deck. Cute, but OAP Tonsil Hockey is not an agreeable spectator sport. She asks him if he’d like to go to the cabin for some TLC. I’m hoping that’s a medication. Or, preferably, code for some much overdue nose-hair clipping.
Barry and Jack (partners for 35 years) head below to their quarters and ask me if they can borrow a funnel. I cock an incredulous eyebrow at Barry and he laughs. Apparently there’s some decanting to be done from their bulk under-the-bed-Gin-store. Barry has a saucy sense of humour, for which Jack frequently apologises, in a British accent you’d swear was the voice-over for those wartime propaganda newsreels . . . “It was 1943 and our lads were doing us proud on the battlefield” . . . that kind of thing. Jack is forever chiding Barry: “I do rather think that joke was a tad beyond the pale”. Jack is quite a bit older than Barry and gets a little disorientated at times, particularly as to the location of their cabin. Together they’re priceless, full of life and willing to try anything. At one bay they attempted a walk that would challenge men half their age, particularly on a muddy track after heavy rain. Predictably they turned back, but had the common-sense and spirit of adventure to commandeer a couple of kayakers to ferry them back to the boat. A few days later after a successful scramble up a densely bush-clad mountain, I heard Jack proudly say (Hilary-style) “I knocked the bastard off!”
Karen and Darren (early 60’s) came on board with the largest suitcase you’ve ever seen. They’ve packed every piece of walking gear ever invented. Gaiters, boots, poles, overtrousers, folding combination camp chairs/backpacks, gloves, hats, raincoats, windbreakers and a couple of flagons of sherry. They’re from smalltown NZ, with classic Kiwi accents to match. I don’t think the other passengers had seen half gallon jars of Cream Sherry this side of the 70’s.
Karen defended their choice of tipple thus: “It’s better to buy cheap plonk because it’s not as old as the expensive stuff and hasn’t had time to go off”. No, really, she’d read that somewhere. Salt of the earth types who’d give you the shirts off their backs. They made me promise to visit them, which I most certainly will do.
Allen, over 70 and technically blind, is on respite leave from caring for his wife who has Alzheimers. He’s clearly relishing the break, especially from cooking. I’m looking after him the best I can, telling him what the nibbles are and where they are. He’s highly intelligent, has a million stories and a fantastic sense of humour.
It’s all very humbling.
6:00pm
I clear away nibbles and do the dishes. The pork has a good crackle, thank God. Put a big pot of water on to boil for the brocolli. Carrots in another pot with orange juice, garlic, a knob of butter. I’ve been told not to use garlic, pasta, rice, chocolate, apricots, spices, herbs and Christ know what else because the captain doesn’t like them, but I’m trying to sneak a few things in just to give the passengers some kind of variety. I’ve also been told what I must cook . . . corned beef, roast pork, chicken quarters, cabbage, cauliflower, brocolli, trifle and mustard sauce. Plain food, because the captain does like those things. I know I’m catering for an older crowd, but hell, age doesn’t preclude having tastebuds does it? It certainly doesn’t preclude having an appetite, I’m staggered at how much they can pack away. Plus they’re paying a lot for this trip. I feel I should give them value for money, but of course that’s not my call. It’s not my business.
6:30pm
I take the pork out, wrap it in an acre of foil, crank the oven up to kiln heat and return two trays of spuds, kumara and pumpkin to reheat, and start the gravy. There’s instant gravy in the pantry but I’m damned if I’ll use it. I know I’m making my life difficult, but “instant” tastes like shit. There’s hardly room on the stove for the brocolli pot, carrots and meat tray. I get the plates out and set the tables. There’s nowhere to warm the plates. The brocolli is barely boiling, the burners just aren’t strong enough.
7:00pm
Plating up for 20. The galley is so small I can do it all without moving, I just need to swivel. I have to be fast and highly organised to get meat, potatoes, kumara, pumpkin, brocolli, carrots and gravy out while they’re hot. It’s a severe challenge, especially when some passengers are asking for “no pumpkin”, “a small helping”, “extra gravy”. And yes, I have the same murderous “awkward customer” thoughts as restaurant chefs do. I can eat my own dinner now, but it has to be shovelled down so I can clear the galley ready for pudding.
7:30pm
Kiwi passengers are pretty good, they usually bring their dirty plates to the galley, and often help with dishes too. Overseas passengers don’t tend to do that, but they tip (unlike Kiwis). Both styles are OK with me, although I’d probably prefer the help. But why should they? I rinse the dishes and set the pudding plates out, looking nervously at the pink-mousse-in-red-silicon-muffin-moulds-abomination. They plop out just fine, and drizzled with berry sauce and topped with a cream quenelle, don’t look too bad at all. I could’ve made the mousse in a big bowl and just dolloped it out, but I reckon an individual serve goes a long way to smartening up a dessert I’d normally be mortified to produce.
8:00pm
Dishes. A frigging mountain of them. Stove cleaning. Tea and coffee. More dishes. I reorganise the fridge, which is difficult as my ribs are still painful. I hurt them getting into the main fridge, a top-loading chest-type. It’s over 3 feet deep and to get to food in the bottom I have to pivot on the edge with my legs in the air at about 45 degrees. Once I couldn’t get out and had to have assistance. The passengers think it’s a scream, little legs flapping in the breeze and the rest of me buried in the fridge.
9:00pm
I should go to bed but the passengers are still up and keen to socialise. I don’t mind at all, most of them are inspirational, entertaining, interesting, and definitely the highlight of the job. The deckhand and captain have gone to bed. Possibly together.
10:00pm:
I have a dribbly lukewarm shower and fetch my smalls from the engine room where they’ve been festooned over various mechanical parts to dry since handwashing them a couple of days ago.
10:30pm
I’m sitting up in bed with my recipe books out, searching for inspiration. What to do with limited ingredients, equipment, time, and fairly strict instructions as to what to cook? We’re 8 days into a 12 day trip and there’s no chance of re-stocking. The day I walked onto the boat, and before I’d even seen the galley, I was told to do a menu plan for 20 people for a 12 day cruise, starting in two days’ time. I have to use what we’ve got, what’s nearing it’s use-by date and what the captain likes. I’m pretty sure we’re going to run out of bread so I’ll have to make some. Fortunately I’ve been making bread for years, so that doesn’t faze me. Well, apart from the time factor.
Tomorrow is chicken-quarter day. I’ve done it before on board and it’s a logistical nightmare. 20 chicken quarters in a smaller than average domestic oven? Two trays, cover tightly with foil. Swap tray positions halfway through. Allow two hours. That may seem a long time, but not in a low-powered boat oven. Take foil off 30 minutes prior to brown. Swap tray positions again. Line a large Tupperware container with reams of foil, add the cooked chicken, put the lid on and hope it stays hot while re-heating the roast vegetables. Cook green vegetables, make gravy. Piece of cake.
11:30pm
My cabin is in the bow of the boat. There’s no portholes so it’s dark. I sleep on the top bunk and keep my clothes on the bottom bunk. There’s no drawers or wardrobe. I did put my toiletries and personal effects in an empty basket I found but was told to move them because that’s where the tea towels are kept. More than half my cabin is used as a storeroom, accessed by anyone at any time, without asking. The upside is there’s a lot of snackfood for midnight munchies.
2:00am
I’m woken by the anchor graunching and waves slapping against the hull. The wind has changed direction, putting us in an uncomfortable and probably unsafe position on a lee shore, which means we’ll undoubtedly have to move.
2:45am
I hear the engine start so I get out of bed to go on deck and help move the boat. I don’t think it’s part of my job, but having huge respect for the sea, and being a sailor before I was a cook, I choose to. I’m still only paid for 12 hours a day, regardless of what hours I work.
As I’m getting dressed to go on deck, my cabin door opens. It’s the captain coming to tell me to get on deck. No knock or anything. It’s embarrassing, and quite frankly outrageous.
A few days ago it was very rough. We were unprepared, and the kettle, coffee perk, toaster, oven trays and other sundry items flew around the cabin. I jammed tea-towels into every orifice to stop the banging and crashing. A couple of gas bottles came loose on the top deck and were smashing against each other. The captain sent me and the deckhand up there to secure them. No life jacket, no safety harness. I’ve done a lot of offshore sailing and I know how dodgy that situation was. Madness. I shouldn’t have done it without the proper safety gear. What was I thinking? I'm having doubts about this.
4:00am:
We’ve re-anchored and I go back to bed for a couple of hours. I’m still thinking about how I can improve on tomorrow’s menu plan, or in fact whether I can even pull off the bare essentials. I love the challenge of making something out of nothing, and this is a great place to practice MacGuyver skills. Four small burners, a 3/4 sized domestic oven, a freezer that doesn’t, last-minute menu changes due to weather conditions, cooking by torchlight when steaming after dark.
I fall asleep thinking what to do with leftovers. Maybe potato salad, corned beef hash, pizza . . . . . .
6:30am
Knackered, but it’s time to get up. I have a quick wash and put the kettle on, quietly. If I play my cards right I’ll have half an hour to myself.
Bugger. Bob, aged 72 and not in the best of health, is up and gagging for a cup of tea and a chat. I’ve been told not to make pre-breakfast cups of tea (also to only make “real” coffee once a day, otherwise it’s “instant”. FFS.) but he’s such a sweety, and in so much pain from a back complaint, that of course I oblige. And quite frankly, I think a cup of tea first thing in the morning is probably included in the Geneva Convention. I set the breakfast tables.
7:00am
Breakfast is easy. Orange juice, cereals, tinned fruit, yoghurt, toast, spreads, tea, coffee. Naturally I have to make it difficult for myself and mix the tinned fruit salad with an array of chopped fresh fruit – apples, oranges, Kiwifruit, grapes, banana, a squeeze of lemon.
7:15am
I crank up the generator and put the coffee on. The coffee perk and toaster can’t be on at the same time as they draw too much power. I cook toast to order, and by now I know how everyone likes it. The guests love the fruit salad. I suspect they’ve never actually had fresh fruit salad before. I scoff a couple of bits of toast and make Afghans for morning tea.
3 days later
11:00am
We pull into port and see the passengers off. There’s another trip tomorrow so the deckhand and I strip and re-make 20 beds. I’ve spent a lot of time on boats, and trust me, making beds is the worst job you can imagine. Confined spaces, awkward angles, it’s a hot, sweaty wrestling match. I’d rather clean the oven or unblock the toilet. I do a stocktake, menu plan and ordering list for the next trip. Those tasks are gratis, as I’m only paid when passengers are on board, but I don’t have time for book work when they are. I wonder about my future as a boat cook.
A few weeks later
I’m finished. Too many unpaid hours. I probably tried too hard and cared too much.
The passengers were incredible and I made some lifelong friends. I learned a lot, and cooking for 20 people in a similar situation wouldn’t faze me. I can make pretty good scones now. Well, not seagull fodder anyway.
As I break the 30th egg into a pastry lined roasting dish, the boat starts lurching. I look up for the first time in hours and see we’re in a notoriously nasty stretch of open water. I smile sarcastically, yeah, looks like I missed the crew briefing on where we’re going today.
The boat is rolling violently from side to side. Three eggs escape from the pie, slide along the bench and plop to the floor. I brace against the stove, lift the dish off the bench and keep control of the contents by acting as a human gimbal. There’s nothing else I can do. Can’t put the dish down. Can’t get the pastry lid on.
The galley is open to the saloon and it’s highly likely I’m now filling the role of Entertainment Officer as well as Cook. I turn to see Barry, aged 77, grinning from ear to ear. It’s not intimidating in the slightest to cook for a former chef in the British Army. Likewise, no pressure baking scones and muffins for 10 farmers’ wives who’ve undoubtedly had a batch in the oven by 9:00am every day of their married lives, plus a china cabinet brimming with A & P Show gold medals. Thankfully, my first boat-scone disaster was causing seagull indigestion well before Mary (a sprightly 93 and making scones for over 80 years) had a chance to wet her pants laughing.
Some of the passengers are looking a bit green around the gills, but fortunately, and despite several horrendous (i.e. normal) ocean sailing trips, I’ve never been seasick. I can even clean up after others less fortunate and carry on eating my dinner. Cast iron stomach. Two months eating street food in India and my only belly problem was its increasing size.
The sea state hasn’t improved, but I can’t stand there all day trying to save a lidless bacon and egg pie. I open the oven door with my foot and shove the pie in to fend for itself. With every wave the dish hits the side of the oven and egg splatters up the walls. Hopefully, at maximum temperature, at least some eggs will set while they’re still in the dish. It’s pointless attempting anything else until we’re in more sheltered water. This is going to put me seriously behind schedule.
As soon as we get vaguely horizontal I carry on with lunch prep. Bread, ham, corned beef (cooked last night), green salad, coleslaw, beetroot, asparagus, boiled eggs, chopped red onion, pickles, chutneys, mustard, dressings. The bacon and egg pie turns out surprisingly well, if a little wedge shaped and minus a few eggs. I don’t know how the passengers can fit lunch in to be honest, it seems like only an hour or so ago since morning tea (home baking, blueberry muffins). Well, actually it was only an hour or so ago. Then there’s dishes, for 20 people. Always dishes. And peeling egg off oven walls.
1:30pm
The passengers go ashore for a couple of hours and it’s easier to work without an audience. Afternoon tea is 3:00 pm, nibbles 5:00 pm, dinner 7:00 pm. Tonight we’re having a 5kg roast pork that will probably take 6 hours in this oven. I roasted the potatoes, kumara and pumpkin this morning because there’s not enough room in the oven for both meat and vegetables. Later, while the pork is resting, I’ll blast the veges at warp factor 10 and make the gravy. I’m working as fast as I did in the restaurant and won’t get a break today. I do have a better view, but scarcely time to admire it.
Pudding dillema. Due to this morning’s sea conditions, there’s not enough time to cook the planned apricot shortcake before the roast goes in. Can’t cook it after either, because pudding must be served directly after dinner. It’ll have to be something cold.
There’s a lot of “instant” rubbish in the pantry from the previous cooks (there’s been a lot of them) that I’m loathe to use, but I have little choice today. What can I do with instant strawberry mousse to make it less heinous? There’s no ramekins or single-serve dishes of any description. I find some silicon muffin moulds, red ones. I make the mousse according to packet directions and try to achieve a taste less like wallpaper paste by adding lemon juice and a few tinned berries. Unsurprisingly, instant pink mousse looks extraordinarily hideous in red moulds. I have no idea if it will set in time. I concoct a sauce from tinned berries, cut up 4 heads of brocolli, a dozen carrots, make apple sauce and whip cream.
3:00pm
The passengers are back and ravenous. I give them leftover home baking: Ginger Crunch and Louise Cake, tea and coffee. They give me dishes. More sodding dishes.
4:00pm
It’s time to prep for nibbles. I scrub and steam open 6 dozen mussels, keep them in the half shell, slather chilli sauce and cheese on top ready for grilling, make two dips, guacamole, lay out chips, corn chips, salami, nuts, prunes, figs, apricots, grapes, crackers and 5 types of cheese.
5:00pm
I grill the mussels and stand back while the passengers get into the gin and sherry. I take a 15 minute break and interrupt a couple of over 70's snogging on the back deck. Cute, but OAP Tonsil Hockey is not an agreeable spectator sport. She asks him if he’d like to go to the cabin for some TLC. I’m hoping that’s a medication. Or, preferably, code for some much overdue nose-hair clipping.
Barry and Jack (partners for 35 years) head below to their quarters and ask me if they can borrow a funnel. I cock an incredulous eyebrow at Barry and he laughs. Apparently there’s some decanting to be done from their bulk under-the-bed-Gin-store. Barry has a saucy sense of humour, for which Jack frequently apologises, in a British accent you’d swear was the voice-over for those wartime propaganda newsreels . . . “It was 1943 and our lads were doing us proud on the battlefield” . . . that kind of thing. Jack is forever chiding Barry: “I do rather think that joke was a tad beyond the pale”. Jack is quite a bit older than Barry and gets a little disorientated at times, particularly as to the location of their cabin. Together they’re priceless, full of life and willing to try anything. At one bay they attempted a walk that would challenge men half their age, particularly on a muddy track after heavy rain. Predictably they turned back, but had the common-sense and spirit of adventure to commandeer a couple of kayakers to ferry them back to the boat. A few days later after a successful scramble up a densely bush-clad mountain, I heard Jack proudly say (Hilary-style) “I knocked the bastard off!”
Karen and Darren (early 60’s) came on board with the largest suitcase you’ve ever seen. They’ve packed every piece of walking gear ever invented. Gaiters, boots, poles, overtrousers, folding combination camp chairs/backpacks, gloves, hats, raincoats, windbreakers and a couple of flagons of sherry. They’re from smalltown NZ, with classic Kiwi accents to match. I don’t think the other passengers had seen half gallon jars of Cream Sherry this side of the 70’s.
Karen defended their choice of tipple thus: “It’s better to buy cheap plonk because it’s not as old as the expensive stuff and hasn’t had time to go off”. No, really, she’d read that somewhere. Salt of the earth types who’d give you the shirts off their backs. They made me promise to visit them, which I most certainly will do.
Allen, over 70 and technically blind, is on respite leave from caring for his wife who has Alzheimers. He’s clearly relishing the break, especially from cooking. I’m looking after him the best I can, telling him what the nibbles are and where they are. He’s highly intelligent, has a million stories and a fantastic sense of humour.
It’s all very humbling.
6:00pm
I clear away nibbles and do the dishes. The pork has a good crackle, thank God. Put a big pot of water on to boil for the brocolli. Carrots in another pot with orange juice, garlic, a knob of butter. I’ve been told not to use garlic, pasta, rice, chocolate, apricots, spices, herbs and Christ know what else because the captain doesn’t like them, but I’m trying to sneak a few things in just to give the passengers some kind of variety. I’ve also been told what I must cook . . . corned beef, roast pork, chicken quarters, cabbage, cauliflower, brocolli, trifle and mustard sauce. Plain food, because the captain does like those things. I know I’m catering for an older crowd, but hell, age doesn’t preclude having tastebuds does it? It certainly doesn’t preclude having an appetite, I’m staggered at how much they can pack away. Plus they’re paying a lot for this trip. I feel I should give them value for money, but of course that’s not my call. It’s not my business.
6:30pm
I take the pork out, wrap it in an acre of foil, crank the oven up to kiln heat and return two trays of spuds, kumara and pumpkin to reheat, and start the gravy. There’s instant gravy in the pantry but I’m damned if I’ll use it. I know I’m making my life difficult, but “instant” tastes like shit. There’s hardly room on the stove for the brocolli pot, carrots and meat tray. I get the plates out and set the tables. There’s nowhere to warm the plates. The brocolli is barely boiling, the burners just aren’t strong enough.
7:00pm
Plating up for 20. The galley is so small I can do it all without moving, I just need to swivel. I have to be fast and highly organised to get meat, potatoes, kumara, pumpkin, brocolli, carrots and gravy out while they’re hot. It’s a severe challenge, especially when some passengers are asking for “no pumpkin”, “a small helping”, “extra gravy”. And yes, I have the same murderous “awkward customer” thoughts as restaurant chefs do. I can eat my own dinner now, but it has to be shovelled down so I can clear the galley ready for pudding.
7:30pm
Kiwi passengers are pretty good, they usually bring their dirty plates to the galley, and often help with dishes too. Overseas passengers don’t tend to do that, but they tip (unlike Kiwis). Both styles are OK with me, although I’d probably prefer the help. But why should they? I rinse the dishes and set the pudding plates out, looking nervously at the pink-mousse-in-red-silicon-muffin-moulds-abomination. They plop out just fine, and drizzled with berry sauce and topped with a cream quenelle, don’t look too bad at all. I could’ve made the mousse in a big bowl and just dolloped it out, but I reckon an individual serve goes a long way to smartening up a dessert I’d normally be mortified to produce.
8:00pm
Dishes. A frigging mountain of them. Stove cleaning. Tea and coffee. More dishes. I reorganise the fridge, which is difficult as my ribs are still painful. I hurt them getting into the main fridge, a top-loading chest-type. It’s over 3 feet deep and to get to food in the bottom I have to pivot on the edge with my legs in the air at about 45 degrees. Once I couldn’t get out and had to have assistance. The passengers think it’s a scream, little legs flapping in the breeze and the rest of me buried in the fridge.
9:00pm
I should go to bed but the passengers are still up and keen to socialise. I don’t mind at all, most of them are inspirational, entertaining, interesting, and definitely the highlight of the job. The deckhand and captain have gone to bed. Possibly together.
10:00pm:
I have a dribbly lukewarm shower and fetch my smalls from the engine room where they’ve been festooned over various mechanical parts to dry since handwashing them a couple of days ago.
10:30pm
I’m sitting up in bed with my recipe books out, searching for inspiration. What to do with limited ingredients, equipment, time, and fairly strict instructions as to what to cook? We’re 8 days into a 12 day trip and there’s no chance of re-stocking. The day I walked onto the boat, and before I’d even seen the galley, I was told to do a menu plan for 20 people for a 12 day cruise, starting in two days’ time. I have to use what we’ve got, what’s nearing it’s use-by date and what the captain likes. I’m pretty sure we’re going to run out of bread so I’ll have to make some. Fortunately I’ve been making bread for years, so that doesn’t faze me. Well, apart from the time factor.
Tomorrow is chicken-quarter day. I’ve done it before on board and it’s a logistical nightmare. 20 chicken quarters in a smaller than average domestic oven? Two trays, cover tightly with foil. Swap tray positions halfway through. Allow two hours. That may seem a long time, but not in a low-powered boat oven. Take foil off 30 minutes prior to brown. Swap tray positions again. Line a large Tupperware container with reams of foil, add the cooked chicken, put the lid on and hope it stays hot while re-heating the roast vegetables. Cook green vegetables, make gravy. Piece of cake.
11:30pm
My cabin is in the bow of the boat. There’s no portholes so it’s dark. I sleep on the top bunk and keep my clothes on the bottom bunk. There’s no drawers or wardrobe. I did put my toiletries and personal effects in an empty basket I found but was told to move them because that’s where the tea towels are kept. More than half my cabin is used as a storeroom, accessed by anyone at any time, without asking. The upside is there’s a lot of snackfood for midnight munchies.
2:00am
I’m woken by the anchor graunching and waves slapping against the hull. The wind has changed direction, putting us in an uncomfortable and probably unsafe position on a lee shore, which means we’ll undoubtedly have to move.
2:45am
I hear the engine start so I get out of bed to go on deck and help move the boat. I don’t think it’s part of my job, but having huge respect for the sea, and being a sailor before I was a cook, I choose to. I’m still only paid for 12 hours a day, regardless of what hours I work.
As I’m getting dressed to go on deck, my cabin door opens. It’s the captain coming to tell me to get on deck. No knock or anything. It’s embarrassing, and quite frankly outrageous.
A few days ago it was very rough. We were unprepared, and the kettle, coffee perk, toaster, oven trays and other sundry items flew around the cabin. I jammed tea-towels into every orifice to stop the banging and crashing. A couple of gas bottles came loose on the top deck and were smashing against each other. The captain sent me and the deckhand up there to secure them. No life jacket, no safety harness. I’ve done a lot of offshore sailing and I know how dodgy that situation was. Madness. I shouldn’t have done it without the proper safety gear. What was I thinking? I'm having doubts about this.
4:00am:
We’ve re-anchored and I go back to bed for a couple of hours. I’m still thinking about how I can improve on tomorrow’s menu plan, or in fact whether I can even pull off the bare essentials. I love the challenge of making something out of nothing, and this is a great place to practice MacGuyver skills. Four small burners, a 3/4 sized domestic oven, a freezer that doesn’t, last-minute menu changes due to weather conditions, cooking by torchlight when steaming after dark.
I fall asleep thinking what to do with leftovers. Maybe potato salad, corned beef hash, pizza . . . . . .
6:30am
Knackered, but it’s time to get up. I have a quick wash and put the kettle on, quietly. If I play my cards right I’ll have half an hour to myself.
Bugger. Bob, aged 72 and not in the best of health, is up and gagging for a cup of tea and a chat. I’ve been told not to make pre-breakfast cups of tea (also to only make “real” coffee once a day, otherwise it’s “instant”. FFS.) but he’s such a sweety, and in so much pain from a back complaint, that of course I oblige. And quite frankly, I think a cup of tea first thing in the morning is probably included in the Geneva Convention. I set the breakfast tables.
7:00am
Breakfast is easy. Orange juice, cereals, tinned fruit, yoghurt, toast, spreads, tea, coffee. Naturally I have to make it difficult for myself and mix the tinned fruit salad with an array of chopped fresh fruit – apples, oranges, Kiwifruit, grapes, banana, a squeeze of lemon.
7:15am
I crank up the generator and put the coffee on. The coffee perk and toaster can’t be on at the same time as they draw too much power. I cook toast to order, and by now I know how everyone likes it. The guests love the fruit salad. I suspect they’ve never actually had fresh fruit salad before. I scoff a couple of bits of toast and make Afghans for morning tea.
3 days later
11:00am
We pull into port and see the passengers off. There’s another trip tomorrow so the deckhand and I strip and re-make 20 beds. I’ve spent a lot of time on boats, and trust me, making beds is the worst job you can imagine. Confined spaces, awkward angles, it’s a hot, sweaty wrestling match. I’d rather clean the oven or unblock the toilet. I do a stocktake, menu plan and ordering list for the next trip. Those tasks are gratis, as I’m only paid when passengers are on board, but I don’t have time for book work when they are. I wonder about my future as a boat cook.
A few weeks later
I’m finished. Too many unpaid hours. I probably tried too hard and cared too much.
The passengers were incredible and I made some lifelong friends. I learned a lot, and cooking for 20 people in a similar situation wouldn’t faze me. I can make pretty good scones now. Well, not seagull fodder anyway.
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