Here we sit in lovely Gili Bodo, the prettiest part of Flores we've found so far. In the distance, thunder rumbles over the mountains of the mainland. The monkeys on the island are making the most of low tide to wander over the dried reef to collect their lunch. The girls have rowed off to shore and have set up camp on the beach. Erik and I had a lovely snorkel earlier; he has moved on to dabbing epoxy on Indy's broken sunglasses. And as I sit here, drying off in the sunshine, am I planning a walk through the hills for the afternoon? Am I pulling out the reef guides to identify the fish I saw this morning? Am I using the binoculars to watch a Phinisi boat sail by?
I am psyching myself up to do battle with the oven.
Once upon a time, back in a land of household appliances and other unicorns, I used to love taking clothes out of the dryer. For a few brief minutes my hands would be warm as I folded pants and towels. In the deepest winter, when our furnace couldn't overcome the lack of insulation in our 90-year-old house, I would press my frozen nose into a gently-steaming shirt and dream of summer days.
But not these summer days. This heat is less: "floaty dresses and open-toed shoes" and more: "if I could unzip my flesh and just sit around in my bones, I would." I should have a care label that instructs: "At high temperatures, store in a strong solution of gin and tonic. Replenish ice as necessary." These are the days that suggest the apocalypse is nigh. And what does nobody want to do while the Four Horsemen thunder across the sky? Stand in front of a hot stove stirring the chili, that's what.
Not that there isn't a bright side to life in the kitchen. I mean, really. It's already 40 C outside, so I'm going to be dripping with sweat anyway. Why not partner that with prepping a nice, hot curry? And since the breeze inevitably dies while I'm down there, my clothes and hair get saturated with the scent of whatever it is I'm making so I always smell delicious. As a bonus, the punishing heat means we won't suffer any inconvenience if our oven ever breaks down. I'll just wrap some chicken in foil, tuck a drumstick into each armpit and voila. Dinner in no time.
Even when Erik cooks things get grim. The waves of heat slowly roll from the galley, up the companionway and into the cockpit, where it takes a seat and refuses to leave.
At least we're all fans of raw vegetables around here. And we would never pass up the opportunity to devour a mango or seven. But my carnivores like their meat both frequently and in volume, and I'm pretty sure offering them an uncooked slab of beef isn't going to fly. I've tried to steer our diet towards colder foods, like pasta salad, but my creativity in that department is starting to ebb.
Soon we'll move on to Labuan Bajo, and while I'll miss the monkeys and the quiet, private reef, anchoring near a town will have one big advantage.
Cities have restaurants.
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