Island Wilderness Camping

Recently, we went on a camping trip. On the Island of Whidbey, just North and West of Seattle. Half a mile from a beach that looks out on the Puget Sound and behind that, the great Pacific Ocean. Accompanying us on this sleeping-in-the-out-of-doors expedition were two other couples, whose celebrity mash-up names would be Zamie and Aargan (pronounced air-gun). Here are shameless plugs of their websites: Zack, Jamie, Aaron, and I don't know if Meagan has a website. Anne's is on the sidebar.

We camped, specifically at South Whidbey State Park. It was fun though there was little in the way of hiking, unlike the massive forests of the Olympic Peninsula, still my favorite place to camp. We set up camp, each couple with our own four-person tent, and set to making food before the sun fell too far down over the horizon. Then we drank around the fire. The weather was nice, though a little cool at night, and the beach was beautiful, full of various beached life-forms ready to have their pictures taken. We, the boys, threw rocks at inanimate objects until we were tired and wanted beer. We, the boys, played with the clay that made up the cliff abutting the beach, and formed it into unidentifiable nothings until our hands were covered in clay and we were wearing stupid smiles. We, all, took pictures of the oddities of the beach (including ourselves) as the tide was at its lowest. Then we walked back up the hill to our camp, in order to sate our desires for food, booze and the mesmerizing behavior of flames. We slept in between eating and playing and drinking, such an insignificant detail though.

I felt like life should be like that more than it is. Void of bank statements and the forty-hour-a-week deal. Just throwing rocks at things and making food. Simple and wonderful. But, I must say, the shower was amazing when I got home, as well the warm bed and the laying about in front of a movie. The camping was fun, for awhile. And it didn't rain. I have sloppily explained the whole thing but the following pictures will help.

The Tent!

More After The Jump

Burnt Cream, a la Francaise, or Something

Creme Brulee (i.e. Burnt Cream) is a custard, Frenchified and toasted on top with a hand held flame. We made this. By "we," I mean Lucas, and an observing me. Lucas, the Cain that didn't kill his brother, is the non-French French chef that created this masterpiece under the keen observatory eye of I. I will defer to his blog to explain the particulars, but all the same I wanted to highlight my experience of brulee-ing the creme. One day, the first day of the experience, I watched as Lucas separated the egg yolks from the whites, leaving the whites alone from their yolks to be cooked in some other separate dish (a later breakfast sandwich for me two days later), whipped the yellows with sugar until they formed distinct lines, heated the cream with excessive and decadent amounts of vanilla (twice the usual, and rightfully so), mixed the whole mess together, and poured them into their receptacles for refrigeration. The following day the magic happened. Crystallization. The top of sugary glass. The joy on each of our delighted faces. This is an end point. This is a result. I will share pictures illustrating what came of the experience. The rest I will leave to Lucas. Learn the secrets of joy-making at http://beyondthehunger.blogspot.com/. Here are pictures: