|A place for everything, and everything in its place. Provided it is boat related, otherwise it's out.|
|Uh oh, kids. Daddy's in the fridge again.|
|Beautiful. But snug.|
Again, this is normally no problem. But once in a while we forget that we live on a boat.
Last summer we were in the Tuamotus. We were giddy to find an actual store with aisles and everything, and lost all reason.
"Amy!" Erik called. "Come quick!"
In the freezer case was a box of chicken. "Ooooo," we chorused. Erik wrestled the box from the case. "10 kilos. Should we get it?"
"Heck, yes," I said. We hadn't seen a chicken since the Galapagos, and everyone was tired of fish.
We got the chicken home before reason returned. I opened the box and realized that, instead of the easily-repacked individual chicken parts I was expecting, we had a solid 22 pound rectangular prism of chicken. There was no question of thawing it - cooking and eating 22 pounds of anything in that heat would be pure punishment.
"Hmm," said Erik. "Let's see what we can do."
Out came the cleaver. Those of you who suffered with me through my failed attempt to use Nutella to mask antibiotics for Indy will remember what a mess that was. This was worse. Here is my handy tip for the day: don't let your husband chop at frozen meat products with a cleaver. Whack, whack! Who knew chicken could form such a spray? As tiny chicken bits began to decorate my galley ceiling, I cried for an end to the massacre.
"Huh," said Erik, eyes roving over the carnage. "I guess we'll have to try something else."
And, so, without further ado, I present to you: Perfect Cruiser Chicken: The Art of Making Room on a Boat.
A few weeks later, we had a shore-side potluck with another boat. I thawed out a brick of chicken and roasted it up.
"My," said Mrs Other Boat. "This chicken is tasty, but the pieces are such unusual shapes."
"Really?" I said. "I hadn't noticed."