When I make a grilled cheese, it’s a labor of love that involves thick slices of sourdough, good butter, a shredded mix of nutty gruyere and sharp cheddar, and a cast iron skillet. Once everything is perfectly golden and oozy, I cut the sandwich diagonally in two, meticulously plating it with one half askew and slightly overlapping the other. “Thanks Mom, ” one of my teenagers will say, genuinely appreciative, but no one is gushing. If you peel away their nonchalance, deep down they think it’s cool having a chef for a mom.
It’s 6:30 a.m. on a sticky August morning and I’m about to embark on a very different, Herculean grilled cheese effort. I’ve come to volunteer in the kitchen of Camp Nokomis, an overnight girls camp on Bear Island in Lake Winnipesaukee in Laconia, N.H. It’s a sort of homecoming — I spent three summers here as a kid, and my 16-year-old daughter Carly is in her seventh summer. The camp sent out an SOS looking for cooks because they were short-staffed, and since I have a pretty good idea of what kids will eat, I decided to sign up for a week in the camp kitchen.
The cook in charge, AJ Edwards, has tasked me with prepping 460 grilled cheese sandwiches, which are lunchtime favorites for the campers and staff who will fill the historic dining hall at the call of the bugle. “A counselor once told me she could eat four of them, ” he says. We want to make sure we have enough.
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There will be no piles of fancy shredded cheese and no obsessing over a single sandwich. This is high volume fare and we need to pump it out fast. Two slices of American cheese placed between square white bread, brushed on both sides with melted butter and browned en masse on a large flat top griddle. My job is to start the assembly early, racking up 40 per tray for AJ to “sling” shortly before service.
At the three-hour mark, with 150 sandwiches to go, I begin to wonder how I got myself into this. As a personal chef in the Boston area, and recipe writer for the Globe, institutional cooking isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse. Then I remember the weekly phone call with Carly. “You’re not going to believe this, ” she announced, the words bursting from her mouth like a jack-in-the-box, “YOU CAN COME TO CAMP!”
Attica Summer Camp Yarra Valley, Victoria, Seville
The kitchen of Camp Nokomis is normally staffed with six to seven people. But COVID travel restrictions for seasonal workers from abroad and a general lack of staffing in the food-service industry has left the kitchen with a crew of two, sometimes just a single person to put out three meals a day for 220 people. Since June, the camp has relied on a revolving door of visiting alumni and members of its leadership team to work the dish pit.
When my daughter mentioned to the camp director that I was a chef, the response was swift. She was told, “We’ll take whatever help she’s willing to give.”
My initial bemused feeling soon gave way to joy. Whose teenage daughter is excited at the prospect of having mom around? I couldn’t say no. I packed my bags for a rustic cabin stay, agreeing to pitch in for seven days.
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On my second full day at camp, I enter the kitchen at 6:15 a.m. to find AJ alone, already up to his elbows in French toast. I take over so he can tackle other jobs like heating up pork and veggie breakfast sausage, cutting fruit, and making oatmeal.
I float thick slices of Texas toast in a bathtub-sized bowl of egg batter. With gloved hands, I carefully transfer the saturated bread to the hot griddle. Since it can only accommodate about 44 pieces, I need to repeat the process at least 10 times. I get into a rhythm. Dip, flip, sway to the left. Twenty-six platters of 12 (and plenty of extras for seconds) are wrapped and kept warm until the 8:15 bugle. They get a dusting of powdered sugar just before the designated camper waitresses swipe them away.
With each new meal, I get more comfortable in the kitchen, trying to help with menu planning as much as I can. A lack of staff means an increased reliance on frozen prepared foods. It’s hard enough getting dinner on the table, let alone making everything from scratch. There are also delivery inconsistencies so we have to improvise when the original menu plan falls through.
Summercamp, Oak Bluffs (ma)
One night I volunteer to make fried rice with all the odds and ends in the walk-in. Maneuvering 20 pounds worth of it back and forth across the flat top is a full body exercise. I have a long spatula in each hand as I face the blazing heat (I could have used a snow shovel). I can feel beads of sweat dripping down my back as I lunge from side to side. Sweep right. Sweep left. Then I realize I can get more rice tossed at once if I use a new ambidextrous motion, engaging every muscle from my shoulders to my wrists. Both arms in, both arms out. I feel like I’m conducting a colorful symphony of broccoli, carrots, red peppers, and egg. By the end of the ordeal, when 26 bowlfuls are sent to the tables, I’m ready for a jump in the lake.
Throughout the week, I also made spiced black beans, beef Stroganoff with buttered noodles, pudding trifles, and butterscotch brownies. I peeled and chopped a 50-pound bag of carrots then cooked them in butter, brown sugar, and apple cider vinegar. I used pots the size of bass drums and stirred with a commercial kitchen tool that could double as a canoe oar. There was little rest between meals because we were always prepping for the next onslaught of campers. I wore my trusty clogs, but my legs still ached from the long days in the hot kitchen.
In between cooking chores, as I walk across camp, I’m reminded of the novelty of being here. “Hi Carly Buck’s mom!” young campers pipe up when we cross paths. “We love your secret sauce” (sour cream mixed with hot sauce for dipping carrots and celery). Or “thanks for making the gluten-free peanut butter bars!” And I always get a nightly visit from Carly who proceeds to fill me in on her full day of activities.
Summer Camp Bar
One perk of having mom in the camp kitchen: Before Carly heads back to her bunk, I ask her what she wants for dessert the next day. I make it for her — and a couple hundred more.
On my second full day at camp, I enter the kitchen at 6:15 a.m. to find AJ alone, already up to his elbows in French toast. I take over so he can tackle other jobs like heating up pork and veggie breakfast sausage, cutting fruit, and making oatmeal.
I float thick slices of Texas toast in a bathtub-sized bowl of egg batter. With gloved hands, I carefully transfer the saturated bread to the hot griddle. Since it can only accommodate about 44 pieces, I need to repeat the process at least 10 times. I get into a rhythm. Dip, flip, sway to the left. Twenty-six platters of 12 (and plenty of extras for seconds) are wrapped and kept warm until the 8:15 bugle. They get a dusting of powdered sugar just before the designated camper waitresses swipe them away.
With each new meal, I get more comfortable in the kitchen, trying to help with menu planning as much as I can. A lack of staff means an increased reliance on frozen prepared foods. It’s hard enough getting dinner on the table, let alone making everything from scratch. There are also delivery inconsistencies so we have to improvise when the original menu plan falls through.
Summercamp, Oak Bluffs (ma)
One night I volunteer to make fried rice with all the odds and ends in the walk-in. Maneuvering 20 pounds worth of it back and forth across the flat top is a full body exercise. I have a long spatula in each hand as I face the blazing heat (I could have used a snow shovel). I can feel beads of sweat dripping down my back as I lunge from side to side. Sweep right. Sweep left. Then I realize I can get more rice tossed at once if I use a new ambidextrous motion, engaging every muscle from my shoulders to my wrists. Both arms in, both arms out. I feel like I’m conducting a colorful symphony of broccoli, carrots, red peppers, and egg. By the end of the ordeal, when 26 bowlfuls are sent to the tables, I’m ready for a jump in the lake.
Throughout the week, I also made spiced black beans, beef Stroganoff with buttered noodles, pudding trifles, and butterscotch brownies. I peeled and chopped a 50-pound bag of carrots then cooked them in butter, brown sugar, and apple cider vinegar. I used pots the size of bass drums and stirred with a commercial kitchen tool that could double as a canoe oar. There was little rest between meals because we were always prepping for the next onslaught of campers. I wore my trusty clogs, but my legs still ached from the long days in the hot kitchen.
In between cooking chores, as I walk across camp, I’m reminded of the novelty of being here. “Hi Carly Buck’s mom!” young campers pipe up when we cross paths. “We love your secret sauce” (sour cream mixed with hot sauce for dipping carrots and celery). Or “thanks for making the gluten-free peanut butter bars!” And I always get a nightly visit from Carly who proceeds to fill me in on her full day of activities.
Summer Camp Bar
One perk of having mom in the camp kitchen: Before Carly heads back to her bunk, I ask her what she wants for dessert the next day. I make it for her — and a couple hundred more.
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