Yesterday’s post about Camp Strake generated a batch of memories, most of them good. That gave rise to today’s post, and possibly one more – that “possibly” would make a good tale, but it is personal, embarrassing and involved a lot of pain. I may, or may not, go there.
The food at Camp Strake was good, but basic, and served cafeteria style. Scouts got eggs for breakfast with bacon or ham and a choice of scratch-made biscuits or buttered toast. One of my morning jobs was slathering melted butter on hot toast with a paint brush.
The butter, along with big blocks of cheese, came from a federal farm surplus program. That cheese with the USDA label was some of the best sharp cheddar I have ever tasted.
Lunch was usually make-your-own sandwiches featuring a variety of cold cuts and that USDA cheese.
Since those were the days when Catholic kids were not allowed to eat meat on Fridays, dinner on Friday and Wednesday featured fish. One evening or the other, the entree was a salmon and noodle casserole. It was pretty good, and since most campers were only there for a week, it was well received. For those of us who were there for the summer, it didn’t take many weeks for the salmon and noodles to lose their appeal.
One Thursday evening, a few of us went out in the woods and captured a couple of armadillos. We took them to Louis the Cook and offered to give him one if he would cook the other for our Friday dinner.
After a bit of haggling, Louis agreed, but only if we would clean them.
Everybody knows the nine-banded armadillo has a tough armored shell, but it came as a surprise to learn that the skin of the soft, hairy underbelly is tough as a boot. They are a hard critter to clean, but we made it.
The next evening, while everybody else was eating salmon and noodles, the kitchen crew sat down to a meal of roast armadillo in cornbread dressing. We had other camp personnel offer us as much as five dollars a plate to share our meal.
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