Page 142 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
Like that’s gonna happen. Yeah right. Guys like me don’t return from South American expeditions with real stories to tell. We come back with pages of research data and a slightly larger Spanish vocabulary, possibly a few new swearwords.
Sitting around the table with all this amazing food, it’s obvious how excited everyone is to be in Argentina. Patagonia is our second stop on our two-week journey, but this is the place where we are finally going to be able to test out the experiments we’ve been working on for almost a year. I’ve been crazy-obsessed with this experiment forever.
That is until a smoking hot Argentinean hostess distracted me. Bobby’s right, we’ll be here all week. I wonder when she’s working next?
Date: August 11
Materials: Frying pan, groceries, lighter, campfire, camping cookbook
Experiment: A study of the molecular gastronomy of consumables, in order to ascertain validation to the positive or negative that male Homo sapiens really are disproportionately less inclined to succeed domestically.
The next day, I wake up extra early with stiff muscles and a fresh coat of frost covering my face and clothes. The last few nights have dipped down past freezing, and it’s really taking a toll on all of us. Not to mention sleeping outside in tents doesn’t lend itself to much comfort either. And to add insult to injury, my team has to wake up extra early to get breakfast ready. We drew the short straw last night and have breakfast duty for the next two days. After walking a quarter mile to grab firewood and get a fire started, I vow that I will never complain about Mom’s overcooked eggs again.
In an effort to distance myself as far away from actually cooking as possible, I attempt to assemble cooking equipment and a pot stand with Spanish-only instructions. Hearing me cursing under my breath, Jewels comes over to lend me a hand.
“Need some help, scientist? Has the culinary world blindsided you?” She’s clearly teasing me because of the expanding pile of blackened iron amassed around me.
“How is anyone supposed to do this without pictures? Especially for people who don’t speak Spanish?”
“Move over.” She grabs an odd-shaped piece and quickly connects it to another odd-shaped piece. “My parents and I used to camp all the time out in Montauk. Get the kettle and we’ll have this oatmeal started in no time.”
In no time flat, she had the kettle holder assembled and the water boiling.
“Luke, why don’t you take over and
stir for a while. I want you to take some ownership over the meal and feel a sense of accomplishment.”
“I’m more than willing to help, I just don’t want to be held liable if someone dies of food poisoning.”
“I think you’re Martha Stewart in the making,” she says as she walks off.
We’re definitely flirting, right? A smile crosses my face and all of a sudden I’m imagining cooking breakfast with the hostess from the restaurant. She’d be skipping around the kitchen to some Argentinean jams, wearing my shirt. Just my shirt. While I’m trying to stay focused on a research proposal that I’m drafting, she’ll circle around the island tousling my hair while singing and dancing, then all of a sudden she’ll grab my hands and pull me toward her . . .
“Luke! LUKE! You’re burning the oatmeal.” Jewels runs over and takes the kettle off the flame. She’s fanning the kettle with an oven mitt.
“Shit. I’m so sorry, I was thinking about the research . . . forgot what I was doing.” The best lies have some truth in them, right?
“It’s fine. Only the bottom is burned. Maybe Martha Stewart is a bit of a reach.”
Today’s culinary masterpiece consists of burned oatmeal, sliced apples, and chewy raisins with a side of juice boxes. At least dinner at the restaurant is something we can all look forward to, me especially. We got assigned teams/small groups for the remainder of the trip. Jewels is in my group. I should be really excited about this. She’s hot. I’ve always thought that. But knowing that she likes me has conflicting effects for some reason. It’s a confidence booster, but it’s also kind of a letdown. Like the hunt’s over and the prize is waiting. Maybe that’s an asshole way of thinking. Another reason to be conflicted, I guess. I’ll have to ask Bobby later.
With breakfast cleaned up, we grab our gear and get ready for another foray into the wintry seas.
“Bro, have you seen my other pair of long johns?” I ask, desperately searching our cramped, disorganized tent.
“You’re not going to need them. We’re going in the water today.”
“What? It’s close to freezing, dude.”
“Who cares about the cold! We’re swimming with the whales and testing our experiments. It’s awesome,” Bobby says.
“That’s today? How do you know?”
“I’ve told you before, you have to respect your elders.”
“Wise Buddha master . . . Shut the fuck up!” I throw my canteen in his general direction, missing by a long shot, which shouldn’t be possible in a two-person tent. My aim sucks.
Date: August 10
