CATERING IN CAMP.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 67, 20 March 1937, Page 1 (Supplement)

CATERING IN CAMP.

PREPARING FOR UNCLE.

CHANGES IN DIET

(By M.E.S.)

When Uncle Edward wrote that he intended to pay our camp a visit we were frankly dismayed, for Uncle Edward is no camper. Xor is he one of those easy-going, urbane old gentlemen who enjoy roughing it even for a day; on the contrary, he is a germ fiend and a diet maniac. Not content with the vitamins that entangled the footsteps of the housekeeper ten years ago, he has taken unto himself seven devils worse than the first and talks of cereals, starches and acids, with gruesome details as to exactly what happens to the internal organs of those foolhardy enough to mix them. Altogether, scarcely the type of visitor to be welcome at such a camp as ours.

For we do not camp on the modern method, on a fashionable beach in some weil-furnished bach at whose door the milkman and baker call; on the contrary, we claim to have possession of one of the few beaches left untrodden l>y the feet of the week-ender and unlittered by the pineapple tin of the excursionist. It is not an easy beach to get at—that constitutes one of its advantages. 'Greens" or Fish? When we heard of Uncle Edward's threatened invasion, the two burning questions to be solved were the tion of all crudely visible germs and the provision of a suitable diet. The first was simple enough; Uncle Edward was only coming for a day, therefore anything that would not reach his standard of per°feet hygiene was simply removed bodily to a cache in the bush only about a hundred yards from the camp, but entirely invisible even to uncle's eagle eye; perfectly easy to bring it back when he had gone. The second was a different matter. What was our guest eating at the moment? Fortunately the greens stage had passed and the "minced liver phase had faded into an unpleasant memory; oblivion had overtaken the dry toast era and Uncle Edward now remembered prunes only to execrate them. Had he begun once more on the same old cycle? If so, lupins and grass were the only greens the camp provided.

It seemed an emergency demanding action, therefore we tramped through the sand to the post office. An S.O.S. t« a cousin in town brought back the amazing answer: "You're in luck. The old boy's on a fish diet." It seemed almost too good to be true. It was. Impossible to imagine Uncle Edward rejoicing in the only diet easily available in camp; we might have, known there was a catch somewhere, and that not of fish. After weeks of excellent fishing, of hauls so magnificent that we could hardly bear to look a flounder in the face, and line-fishing so superb that a stuffed snapper held practically no appeal—suddenly, after all this plenty, came famine. Four days before our visitor's advent the fish ceased to bite; worse, they refused to lie about in the mud and be netted. Heavily we trudged through sand to the store, and at first enthusiastically, then listlessly, finally with loathing in our hearts, we opened tin after tin of corned beef . . . corned beef and Uncle Edward. . . .The thought was fantastic; to him all tinned foods had long been anathema. Emergency Supplies. We could not leave it at that. The whole reputation of the camp was at stake. Had we not boasted for years of our prowess? In face of criticism— "You farmers are lucky chaps; can never afford a holiday myself"—had we not answered superbly: "It costs nothing at the beach; you see, we practically live on fish." Were we now to eat our words and invite our visitor to eat our corned beef? With a sigh and a moan we took our lanterns and our flounder spears and went forth into the stilly—and uncommonly chilly—night. I have forgotten the exact extent of the mud flats and the mileage of the bay. I only know that between the five of us we must have covered a good fifty of them between 9 and 1 a.m., and that we brought back a large portion of their surface upon our frozen persons. But what did that matter? We also brought back three flounder apiece—a poor enough catch, perhaps, but at least 15 fish should sustain Uncle Edward's ebbing strength for one whole day. But when we returned to camp, expecting to find the women folk asleep, we were greeted by one of those regrettable examples of lack of faith that have estranged many husbands. Our wives were seated exhaustedly drinking tea in the cook-house, while round them were strewn fish—fish of all sizes and descriptions. Nor did they show any wifely enthusiasm at our prowess, or even offer us a cup of tea to thaw us. They merely 6aid, coolly, "How could we depend on you ? We walked across the bay to that camp five miles off. We pretended we were paying a call. Then we hinted— simply cadged for fish. They've got lots, but then they're what you'd call real fishermen." Elusive Milk.

The second blow followed swift. "We called for letters at the poet office; there was one from Cousin A.; she mentions .that Uncle Edward only eat* neh when cooked in milk." Milk? Our laughs ■were hollow. Our only milk comes from out of one of those" ting that are anathema to Uncle Edward. Worse was to follow. "They told us at the camp that there are lots of cows on that Maori place running wild with their calves. Surely it would be easy enough for one of you to milk one?" The argument followed well-worn lines, but already our spirit was broken. When the first pale streaks of dawn lit the sky we sallied forth to see if perchance there was one cow on that Maori run that had once belonged to a milkinjr herd and would allow us to milkier.

There was—an aged Jersey who eventually yielded a reluctant quart—but not until we had had adventures with other and less accommodating cows that would make those of a Spanish bullring pale into insignificance. We decided that Uncle's visit was a mistake.

But how hitter a one we were to learn. It started badly. The launchman deposited him at the further beach, so that he arrived breathless from a -walk through the bush track—exhausted, but flushed with pleasure from his first good deed of the day. "Found a horrid rubbish dump in the bush, not a hundred yards away from your camp. Wonder you're not dead of disease. Ye*. I stayed to set the beastly thin? alight. Less perms now. What's that? Fish? Never touch the stuff. A ma*s of jerms. Milk? Only if it's out of a tin. The truth is. the only pure food we ever pet is what is canned. You'd be amazed to hear the number of perms killed in the process. Eat only tinned foods, and you'll be healthier people." • .