Mike and Mom's Excellent Adventure

from the cook’s perspective

this is a long blog entry – no way to describe an experience like this any other way.

On the Tuesday before a long-weekend holiday, my son, Michael called to ask for the recipe for my relatively famous Warm Wild Rice Salad. It was a simple enough request. Out of curiosity, I asked what he wanted it for. The rest will become family history.

I knew he was a part of the American Tall Ship Institute (www.americantallship.com), a non profit created for the purpose of getting inner-city, at-risk kids aboard tall ships – not just to teach them sailing, but to give them a different perspective of life and adventure. Go to the above website link to see photos and to learn lots more about these special programs.

The Warm Wild Rice Salad was to be served as part of a luncheon aboard the Bill of Rights, a 146 foot schooner, currently harbored in San Pedro, California. The American Tall Ship Institute wants to buy it as part of its program development. Since Michael is one of the key characters of the group, and its primary fundraiser, he was quickly putting together a madcap adventure in the San Pedro harbor to raise funds to buy the Bill of Rights. They have to move fast. Another interested group is also close to the purchase of this beautiful ship, and, if they buy it, will haul it off to France.

So, before our phone call was over, Michael had moved right through the recipe request to, “Wait – would you just come with me to San Pedro and cook for this event? I mean, you make the salad… and the rest of lunch for 60 people… oh, and cook for the crew for the weekend as well.”

It’s hard for a mother to deny her kid anything, if it is in her power, even if her “kid” is 42 years old. As it happened, I was free that weekend and… agreed to go. I called my friends in LA, Gordon and Reparata, and said, get down there and bring your friends! It’ll be a hoot!

It certainly wasn’t as outrageous as the leap from an airplane at 13,500 feet with Dylan, as I described in a previous blog entry, but, for a non-sailor, well-known for, shall we say, a delicate tummy, it was certainly an out-of-the-box experience for me. The operative and convincing words were “the ship doesn’t leave the harbor,” which helped a lot. The story has a very happy ending. Follow the link just below to read the rest . . .

They were planning to take about 50 people sailing on another tall ship, the Irving Johnson; prospective donors with whom, during the sail, they would discuss the situation and encourage their participation in the quest for monies to buy the Bill of Rights. Then back to the Bill of Rights for a tour and lunch. (By the way, the Bill of Rights was to stay at the dock, with me aboard, because it, like me, is not quite sea-worthy at the moment, hence the sail on the Irving Johnson. Just an FYI.)

On Thursday, I gathered together my usual cook’s kit, including foodstuffs, my knives, baking sheets, pans, Food Processor and KitchenAid Mixer (if I do something, I want to do it right – and besides, we were traveling by truck, so I could take anything I wanted). I threw some clothes in a bag, slung my camera and computer cases over my shoulder and off we went on Friday afternoon, arriving seven hours later, in the dark.

My photos of the late-night arrival look like EKG printouts, wavering as I was on the mildly rocking ship. The “boys” (Michael, the ship’s Captain, Stephen Taylor, and a friend of his named Daniel), unloaded all my gear from the truck, down the ramp, up onto the boat and down the hatch.

The galley kitchen was as big as my dining room table – that is to say, extremely small. Definitely a “one-butt kitchen.” Nice eight-burner Wolf stove, however, and about eighteen inches of counter space. I’ve cooked in smaller spaces (Steven Seagal’s on-the-movie-set honeybucket being one), but this was entirely new.

As to my bunk: when I described it to my husband, David, over the phone as 6x6x6, he laughed and asked, “How big is it, really?” I said, “David - 6x6x6 – no kidding.” I had brought my own bedding: sheets, comforter, pillows, and boy! Was I glad. It made a nice cozy little nest: my gear stashed on the lower bunk, my bed above, my towel hung on a hook, my shoes in the corner.

Saturday morning there were the five of us (by then Scott had arrived), drinking coffee at 6am, contemplating the day, the clean up of the ship, the party, food, breakfast. I threw together some sort of meal made out of whatever Stephen had in his little fridge, made a grocery list, cleaned the galley, took a shower in the world’s tiniest stall and went off with Gail, a board member of the American Tall Ship Institute, to Costco. Let me see… what’s wrong with this picture?… Costco, Saturday afternoon, LA, a holiday weekend. That was a wonder in and of itself! But, we made it through the throngs of shoppers without much incident and made our way back to the ship where, once more, all my stuff was unloaded, tramped down the gangway, uploaded onto the ship and then down the hatch.

Meanwhile, more crew had arrived, fathers and daughters, fathers and sons, board members and sailors, and were busy sweeping, washing and generally spiffing up the ship for the arrival of all these prospective donors. I discovered the true meaning of “ship-shape” – these folks worked their fannies off all afternoon.

One of the highlights for me was the arrival on Saturday afternoon of three 20-something women named Amanda, Rosemary and Amber, in black and white striped t-shirts, who my son described as “Schooner Rats.” These beautiful babes make their way from harbor to harbor, yacht club to yacht club finding work aboard tall ships. They were all working on other ships nearby (the Exy Johnson, The Tully Moore and the Irving Johnson, respectively), but came to see Captain Stephen Taylor and found others, including Michael, whom they knew. Without skipping a beat, they pitched right in with the prep work for the party, chopping veggies, de-boning chicken, slicing bread, whatever it took to get ready. But the best part, other than their amazing attitudes and can-do spirits, was the two-hour serenade of sea shanties while chopping, slicing and dicing. In perfect harmony, they sang these hilarious, bawdy and perfectly off-color songs of the sea. It made me so happy I almost cried. There was something about the camaraderie and helpfulness, the cheerful atmosphere, the tiny galley full of stuff, the aroma of chocolate chip cookies baking in the semi-functional oven, that made me feel, at least for that moment, that all was right with the world. It seemed so right to be there. These people were all glowing with good health and love of their chosen lives.

I wasn’t the only one with lots of paraphernalia. Michael brought his BBQ and roasted several large pieces of wild pig for the crew while I threw together the pasta salad, greens and bread. Meanwhile, chop, slice, dice, bake and continual prep went on.

I fell into my bunk about 11, which brings me to the realities of sleeping aboard a tall ship docked next to a cargo-ship-unloading situation. Beep-beep-beep went the unloading warning signal all night. Drift off to sleep. Beep-beep-beep. Stay awake for a while. Drift off to sleep. Beep-beep-beep. Oh well, I thought. I’ll sleep when I get home. In three nights aboard the Bill of Rights I perhaps slept a total of 7 hours.

But, I only bumped my head once in the whole weekend – and not on the ceiling of my tiny bunk, but coming back up the ladder from below decks, without knowing that one of the crew, in the midst of cleaning, had half-closed the hatch cover. I had my visor on… what can I say? That and three broken fingernails, a tennis ball sized bruise from whacking into the stove handle, sore arms from pumping water out of the sink, schooner grime imbedded into my skin… but I’m getting ahead of my story.

My morning coffee is generally taken back to my bed where I read, meditate and sit next to my husband for about an hour before arising. Not so aboard the Bill of Rights. I noticed that when the cook (that would be me) was heard rattling around in the galley, the whole crew would seem to materialize, hopeful looks on their faces, empty cups in their hands. Many cups of coffee and platters of egg sandwiches later, it was time to get back to chop-chop.

The crew, after hoisting flags, hanging Tall Ship Art, more clean up and organizing, finally went off with their prospective fairy-godmothers and -fathers to sail on the Irving Johnson for several hours, which left just Gail and me to finish up lunch for the lot of them. By then we were pretty well together, and by the time the crew and company returned, we had two long tables on deck, spread with wine, beer, lemonade, water, and platters full of the, yes, Warm Wild Rice Salad, a rather masterful Pasta Salad, Roasted Mustard Potatoes, and the biggest pile of Tarragon Chicken Salad I ever made nested on a bed of shredded Romaine. I knew these people would be hungry. Although the temperamental oven didn’t do it justice, and didn’t cook it through, the guests loved the Berry Cobbler anyway. A bit on the juicy side, we made paper cups available, and it was gobbled right up – Purple Berry Cobbler Soup with real whipped cream (thank you, KitchenAid).

The usual clean–up ensued – I won’t waste time on it, except to say that other people did it – my friend Reparata and several crew members from the Irving Johnson. Thank you, thank you.

What I want to say, other than providing my readers with recipes for a somewhat smaller crowd, is this:

I will always be glad I jumped into this Tall Ship Adventure with my son. I watched him work alongside his peers. I saw him climb the mast. I saw how people love him. I met some amazing people and made new friends. I saw the intense belief in this project, and the dedication of these lovely people to a cause. I saw how time aboard these ships enhances everyone’s lives – the sea air, the hard work, the friendship, the shear beauty of the environment - the night sky, the full moon over the twinkling water, the sun in your eyes, the spray on your face.

I saw the honor and integrity of a group of people with a goal and the lengths to which they will go to get there. I felt keenly the commitment to the program, from Captain Steve and his board of directors right down to the Schooner Rats and their striped shirts, the visiting friends pitching in to help, even the little doggie, Cheppa, always at the Captain’s side.

I was deeply moved by their appreciation of me, each other, the ship. I almost cried again when, while we were all drinking Margueritas next door at the Acapulco after the big event, my son leapt to his feet to buy me a rose from a passing vendor. When he said to me, “Do you even half know how much I love you for this?” I almost cried again. OK, I did cry. Just a little.

I fell in love with all of them – the Captain, his crew, the dog, the ship itself - the kind of love that carries one through dark times, the kind that says, “I am here, I am making this world a better place, I am doing good things.”

As we packed the truck up again on Monday morning, getting ready to drive north, I stood in awe of the ship in its grandeur, the beauty of it, the magnificence. I hoped the American Tall Ship Institute gets this tall ship. But if they don’t, there will be another one for them, surely, because they are good honest people, making a difference in the lives of so many. I wish there were more like them in this world.

Recipes to follow soon. Thanks for listening. GB

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