Frying pan or skillet? That’s up to you. But whatever you call it, if you cook in camp, you probably find it indispensable. I know I do — on most trips, at any rate. And how do I use it? Let me count the ways. Sautéing meat and fish. Cooking pancakes and eggs (scrambled or fried, it makes no difference). Preparing hot sandwiches. Stir‑frying veggies. Making skillet pasta or rasta, along with a profusion of other rice dishes. Baking personal pan‑sized skillet pizzas and minipizzas, not to mention breadstuffs like flatbread and bannock and baked treats like skillet cookies, apple crisp, and brownies.

The upshot? Unless you’re a spartan minimalist, it’s a safe bet that you have a skillet in your kitchen pack. But which kind? Most outfitters give you a choice between cast iron and aluminum. (The latter usually sports a nonstick coating. If it doesn’t, it’s not worth considering.) And the big‑box retailers follow suit. Steel skillets also make their appearance from time to time, but they don’t stay in the catalogs for long. And I think I know why. Steel makes great bike frames, and steel‑clad aluminum cookware has quite a following among professional chefs, but the steel camping skillets I’ve used have been disasters. Even my beautiful Sigg steel skillet proved temperamental. No matter how much care I took to season it, and how much oil I used, food still stuck. (Have you found the secret to cooking on steel? If so, please let me know.)

So it’s down to two: cast iron and nonstick‑coated aluminum. I own both, but which is better? It’s not an easy question to answer. Let’s begin by looking at cast‑iron and aluminum skillets, side by side… Read more…

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Early in my college career, my purse was as light as my schedule was heavy. Which meant I relied mostly on coffee, canned ravioli, and popcorn to keep body and soul together. It wasn’t exactly a balanced diet, but every now and then I enjoyed a real sit‑down meal, courtesy of my housemate, a teacher of English who also liked spending time in the kitchen.

Happily, she was as good a cook as she was a teacher. She was a good writer, too, and for several years she sold feature articles to women’s magazines. But the roller‑coaster life of a freelance didn’t suit her, and she eventually chucked it in for a job with a salary and a pension scheme. She was still writing for the magazines when we shared a house, however, and she sometimes planned articles around whatever she was cooking. I was a frequent beneficiary. I’d come through the front door after a long day, tired and cold from my 18‑mile bicycle commute — I averaged one flat a week, winter and summer — only to be greeted by a mouth‑watering aroma wafting from the dining room.

Usually, the meal was fairly standard American comfort food — we’d both grown up in dairy country, and the house we shared was on a working farm — but occasionally something out of the ordinary was on the table. This was the case on one particular day, when I sat down before a large bowl from whose dusky orange surface fragrant tendrils of steam constantly spiraled. I dipped my spoon into the liquid and brought up a cube of carrot, a crescent of celery, a half‑moon of mushroom, and a bit of shredded chicken. No surprises here. These were commonplace country fare. But there was also a raisin and a small cube of something white. And the aroma was anything but commonplace. It was, in a word, exotic. Yet it was also, somehow, familiar. Then I lifted the spoon to my lips, and …

All was revealed. But not immediately. The “something white” was a piece of apple. Of that I was certain. The rest, however, eluded me. It was delicious, to be sure, but what was it? My initial enquires were met with enigmatic smiles. After a while, however, my housemate yielded to my repeated entreaties and vouchsafed the name of the dish. It was called “mulligatawny.” And the recipe? It had been brought to the States by her English grandmother, though it was only English by adoption. The dish had its roots in India. So it seemed I had been dining — at several removes, admittedly — at the table of the Raj.

Now that I was on the scent, so to speak, I lost no time in unraveling the hearty meal’s remaining secrets. I concluded it was little more than chicken and vegetable soup, to which fruit had been added. But there was something else… Read more…

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I like nuts. That’s not exactly a secret, though, is it? I’ve been extolling their virtues for a long time. They pack a lot of calories and other good things in a very small space. They travel well. And they taste good. All of which makes them ideal fare for cyclists, paddlers, and hikers. Well, for some of them, at any rate. But not everyone can eat them. If you have a nut allergy, you know what I mean.

Peanuts aren’t true nuts, of course. They’re legumes — beans, if you prefer. But peanut allergies probably get the most space on food blogs and in the popular press. Which leaves folks who are allergic to “tree nuts” feeling a little left out. (Peanuts, aka groundnuts, grow in the soil.) And to be honest, I haven’t done much to redress the balance. While I’ve said a few words about peanut allergies in past columns, I’ve entirely neglected the interests of folks who can’t eat tree nuts. Now I’m going to begin putting that right… Read more…

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