Outdoor Cooking

Cooking out of doors in 1940 — bean holes, spits, clambakes and burgoo, from three food writers who thought a campfire was the best joke going.

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Cooking the Catch

DURING THE OUTDOOR season, just as soon as the angleworms begin to chirp, Friday is twice as much fish day as in winter. Not because we eat double when something beside eels, cod and frost fish are running, but because Friday marks the beginning of the end the week end-when all our thoughts and fancies lightly turn to hook and sinker. Maybe not all, but pretty near, for last year 13,000,000 fish and game licenses were issued and yet only a fraction of our sea and inland waters require permits for whipping them with a line.

So the dawn of every holiday lights up a forest of fishing poles moving by car, bus, leg, train, boat, even airplane, to the most likely holes and shoals. Alert in spite of the hour, clear-eyed and fresh-skinned, already breathing deeply while the rest of the world snores, men and women alike (but the women only a salting of one in ten) lug their own gear and impedimenta to the casting grounds. California beaches are alive with sanddabbers; Pikes Peakers stop their yodeling to sneak up on mountain pools, fix live field mice on tiny rafts and push them slyly out into the current to lure the rainbow trout. A surfeit of surf casters, trollers, stream-wading fly flickerers.

The whir of the first cast! Splash of the first plummet! Boy! What a strike! Somebody has amateurishly left the ratchet locked on his reel and will ruin it. Alas, amateurs, like blowfish, crabs and conger eels, are always with us, getting everything tangled, trying to bait up with one of our eyes as we glare at a mere woman who just can't bear to slice a juicy bloodworm.

Of course any fisherman, or fisherwoman who can bait her own hook, can also cook the catch to epicurean perfection. So all equipment for salt or fresh-water sport should be divided into three equal parts, catching kit, cooking kit and the little brown jug-or better still, dry white wine which serves as well for cooking fish as for drinking with it. But even if you forego the first division in favor of the marketman, one of these crisp autumn days you'll find yourself hankering for a camp cooking kit. It won't be complete without bottle, skillet, grill, a long two-tined fork, a brace of lemons, plenty of bacon, a covey of onions and tomatoes, a fistful of Italian parsley (flat-leaved and tastier than the curly), some saffron, dry sage, fresh dill, capers, salt, paprika and black pepper in a grinder. And don't forget the shashlik skewers either-for what grasshoppers are to bass, fish shashlik is to you.

Squat any angler down before a brisk wood fire with a lapful of skewers, plenty of fresh-caught fish, a carving knife, and he'll know just what to do. He may never have heard of shashlik, yet instinctively he'll fillet the fish, cut it into toothsome hunks and slice bacon squares to match, alternately running them through with a skewer. Hunched over his caveman coals he'll thread on beads of bacon, fish and tomatoes in turn, as though his very life depended on it, rotating the joystick like a witch, his lips working with incantations while the juicy flesh is broiled to a blushing burnt sienna. Then he'll season it with parsley, sage or a sprinkling of fresh dill flowers, crushed.

STICK FISH The experienced camp cook will vary shashlik with "stick fish" by digging a short, shallow trench about a foot deep, and making therein a sweet-smelling fire with plenty of dry hardwood. This savory ceremony begins just as soon as the blaze has died down to searing coals. Meanwhile the catch gets cleaned somehow, all gills removed, but heads left on. The skin is scored deep, and salt, pepper, chopped Italian parsley, oil, bacon grease or butter, rubbed in. A strip or two of bacon, skewered firmly in place, gives automatic basting and blessing, for most fish are too dry. All but herring and the Alaska candlefish cry for bacon. Cut a stick for each fish, three or four feet long and as big around as a kid's eyes when he lands his first sucker. Sharpen both ends to sloping billiard cue points, run the fish through from the gaping mouth, along the belly cavity and out by the backbone as near as you can to the tail. The fish must be slid down until firmly impaled, for it's almost as tragic to let it fall off into the fire as to lose it overboard. Jab the other stick point deep in the ground at the trench edge, to bring the thickest part of the meat closest to the coals. The stick must be slightly inclined so no heat is wasted, and space left for occasional turning.

If the cook really knows his stuff he'll heave in a bale of sage at the finish to smother the panting coals and send up a cloud of celestial incense that permeates the broilers all the way to the wishbone and gives just that added zest. It's the trick of the Marseilles fishercooks who send broiled merlan or mackerel sizzling to the table in a scented shroud of sage smoke.

For the Modern Kitchen

Two campfire methods are buried in this essay: fish shashlik on skewers, and "stick fish" broiled upright beside a trench of coals. Both depend on coals rather than flame, and on bacon to make up for lean flesh.

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