One summer when my brother and I were young, we stayed with a family friend so our mother could serve as a counselor at a Girl Scout camp.

At some point mom came and got us so we could visit the camp. The girls had gone home and the new batch hadn’t arrived yet, which is why we two boys were allowed to visit.

Mom walked us through many of the skills the Girl Scouts learned at the camp: how to set up a tent, how to start a fire, how to check for snakes before using a fallen log as an impromptu chair, etc. (The snake check was important because we lived in Oklahoma.)

Mom had bought food for our weekend adventure, including steaks, potatoes, carrots, and onions, ingredients for a special steamed meal.

We gathered rocks and formed them into a ring to make a place for a fire. Mom explained that fire needs three things: heat, air, and fuel. Under her tutelage, we gathered small, medium, and large sticks, arranged them according to Girl Scout practice, and got the thing going with a single match. Soon we added small logs.

We cooked bacon and eggs in a cast-iron skillet. Bread was toasted by skewering it with a stick and propping it near enough to the flames to brown, but not burn.

I’ve eaten at some fine restaurants in my life, but no meal ever tasted as good as that campfire breakfast.

Next on the agenda was a hike. Before setting off, we prepared lunch, which would be ready for our return. Following mom’s directions, we tore off long pieces of aluminum foil and wrapped up our steaks, potatoes, carrots, and onions. She showed us how to crimp the edges of the foil, forming an airtight pouch.

“We are going to bury these in the coals,” she said. “They will cook while we are hiking, and when we get back, we’ll dig them up, unwrap them, and have a delicious lunch.”

Using a small shovel, we pushed hot coals to one side of the fire pit and dug a hole to put our foil-encased meals in. Next we covered the hole and raked the coals back on top.

When we got back from the hike, breakfast had worn off, and we were ready for lunch. We dug up our meals and opened them. Meat, potatoes, carrots, and onions were all burnt black beyond recognition.

Mom looked at her two young sons, and we looked at her. “Never tell anyone about this,” she said firmly. “I mean it.”

My brother and I nodded, our stomachs rumbling.

We doused the coals and stirred them to Smokey the Bear standards, then got in the car and went to town, where mom bought us hamburgers and French fries.

I had nodded my head, agreeing to never tell about our burnt meal misadventure. And I was true to that nod for many many years. But now – sorry, Mom – I’ve broken my nod.

Supporting Sponsor for the Advertiser Democrat
Keeping communities informed by supporting local news. norwaysavings.bank