I am having stomach problems. I'm not supposed to eat seeds, but being in Copenhagen makes this impossible! Chai, flax, regular sesame, black sesame, pumpkin, sunflower, and alfalfa seeds- you name it- are in every dish or snack I eat. I am reduced to eating the hotel's sourdough bread with their delicious Danish butter. Thankfully, there are no seeds.
Whenever I see butter, I think of Mons, Bent's brother, both who came on the trans-Atlantic crossing with Dave, my father, and me.
We were taking four months to sail the boat from Scotland over to Grenada. Each stage of the trip, Dave would invite a few friends to come along. He and I were the only constants.
The crossing over from Gran Canary was going to be the longest and so, Dave only wanted a small crew. He would be captain, and a good friend of his, Bent, would be his backup. Bent, who is Danish-Canadia, asks Dave if he can bring his brother, Mons, along. He paints a good picture of how easy going and fun it would be to have Mons along.
This all sounds good to me. Especially having Bent along because besides being an airplane pilot, Bent is a competitive 470s racer and has taken part in regattas around the world. The only problem with Bent is he can only go below deck to lie down and sleep. He gets seasick if he stands up, for instance, to cook or sits at the table to eat. So, no sous chef for Bent.
It's no problem. He and Dave make an excellent team navigating the boat in the right direction. They are using sextants and compass settings, and hell, it's no big deal if they lose a day or two of readings. There's nothing to hit in front of us anyway.
(Note: It is the end of the 1980s, and we are trying out one of the first GPS systems. Reception is sporadic, but Dave is excited because it has a fantastic accuracy of ± one sea mile. How crazy is that? (I really wish he could see smartphones and google maps now.))
So that leaves Mons as co-chef. I have done all the provisioning, so every storage space or cubby hole is filled to the brim with fresh food, canned and boxed produce, and French wines. The meal plan is stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet.
Weeks ago, Dave assured me that he had "the talk" with Bent about Mons having to cook during the trip. Good, tasty meals are second to good navigation on a long journey. Actually, a bit of sloppy navigation can be tolerated. Bad-to-meh food, never. So, I am anxious to know how good a cook Mons is.
I sent Dave a list of instructions about our meals to pass on to them:
- We'll have vegetarian meals unless we catch fish.
- If we catch fish, we eat it fresh and stretch it (e.g. fish chowder) until all of its loveliness is gone.
- I (the main chef) and Mons (the co-chef) will work together. We will alternate days cooking breakfast. Whoever cooks cleans. I will cook all the dinners. Mons will help chop up vegetables, if needed, and do all the cleaning up.
- Everyone is responsible for making their lunches. You can use anything in the refrigerator to make your lunch.
- If you want to take anything from the storage cupboards or freezer, ask me first. This prevents anyone from eating a necessary component of tomorrow's dinner.
- Only one bottle of wine is served at dinner. No matter how many of us are drinking or how great the conversation is... one bottle per evening.
- Anyone wanting to drink fancy coffee must bring enough for everyone. Otherwise, normal filter coffee bought at the local grocery store is served.
Bent and Mons arrive on the morning we are due to leave on the trans-Atlantic crossing. After bringing their luggage to the forward cabin, Mons comes back to the main cabin with his arms filled with, I kid you not, 15 kgs of vacuum-packed smoked hams, meat slices, and various cuts of venison.
I'm momentarily speechless. "Did you not get the note about how I am responsible for provisioning the boat and planning all the meals?"
"Oh, I thought it would be nice to bring something special. I love meat. Don't you? Where should I put all this?" he asks naively.
I mentally review all the storage spaces packed to the rim with delectables. "You can stash the meat in your luggage storage space or under your pillow, for all I care," I answer back, annoyed. Mons and I have obviously gotten off on the wrong foot.
Once we leave the harbour and share the excitement of being on our way, I calm down, so I suggest he and I sit down and look at the meal plan to better understand what he's to cook. "I can't cook", he says. He seems stunned that I would ask. "Can't cook! You can't cook at all?" I'm beginning to panic. "Didn't Bent tell you that you are supposed to cook?" He looks back at me blankly.
"Are you at least an experienced sailor?" He continues to look puzzled. "I have sailed a little, but never on a boat this size and never on the ocean." Without realizing it, a "Then why are you here?" slips out of my mouth. He puts on a puppy-dog expression and says, "I'm going through a messy divorce. Bent thought the trip would help me get my mind off things." Men!
On my way down to the aft cabin, my cabin, I pass Dave. "Did you know Mons cannot cook?" Dave looks up from the chart. "He can't cook at all?" I respond with, "Nada." There's a very pregnant silence weighing between us. "Wow" is all Dave gives me in the way of an apology. Obviously, he didn't have "the talk" with Bent.
Furious, it takes all my control not to slam the door to my cabin. I put on some calming music and open the aft porthole. My fury begins to stretch in different directions. One finger points at Dave, who never gets phased and seemingly instantly has gone over to Plan B - let Lia do all the cooking. Then there is Bent, a long-term buddy of Dave's. In his oversimplistic life, how could he invite his brother, who is obviously a Depp or idiot? But the middle finger of my wrath points directly at Mons.
He'll be total ballast on this stretch of the journey. One I've been so looking forward to. I tried to look at the situation from another perspective. Under what circumstances would I be willing to cater to everyone's needs and do all of the cooking, without carrying any resentment?
I think long and hard. I take a power nap. I put on some Kieth Garret. Then it comes to me in one fell swoop.
I go up to the cockpit where the three men are sitting. "Hey, guys, since it looks like I will have to do all of the cooking, I'd like to set some new rules. I will do all of the cooking- breakfast and dinner- and Mons will do the clean-up." I continue, "Breakfast will be at eight in the morning, and dinner will be at six o'clock."
They all nod their heads. I smile. "Normally, we each do three watches during every 24-hour period. This includes a night watch. I will do two watches, not three. The first will be from 4 a.m. to 6 a.m., and the second from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. You can work out the other watches among yourselves." There are more nods.
"And lastly, you have to make your own coffee. I do not want to feel like I am your waitress on this trip." Satisfied that they understood the message. I go below to make dinner.
So, what does this have to do with Danes and their butter?
Well, once I have negotiated the conditions above, I think everything will be okay. I will see every sunrise, be in bed at 10 o'clock, and have plenty of time to cook without anyone getting in my way. Sounds sweet.
As the days passed, we get into the rhythm of things. That is until ten days into the crossing. I open the freezer to take out a package of butter since none is left in the refrigerator. No matter how deep I dig, I can't find any.
I am sure I bought four packages- one per week for those who want butter on their sandwiches or omelettes for lunch. We don't need more because I always cook with oil.
I look over at the guys. "Has anyone seen the butter?" Mons looks up from his book, "I ate what I could find. Do you have any more?" Flabbergasted, I asked, "You ate the butter in the refrigerator and the three packages from the freezer? Without telling me? You ate four packages of butter in ten days?" He looks chagrined and tries to make light of the matter. "You know the Danes; we believe you should put so much butter on your bread your toothmarks show when you take a bite!"
Without a word, I turn and head back to the aft cabin. I know it isn't such a big deal. The guys can use mayonnaise and mustard on their sandwiches. Then again, I know the incident with the butter is the last straw. Mons is officially dead meat to me, just like the 15 kgs stashed in the forward cabin.
(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)
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