TheBanyanTree: The Duck Camp Pressure Cooker

[Dale M. Parish]

Tobe reminded me of Uncle Carl.  Daddy spent four years in the Marine
Corps in the Pacific Theater and had some pretty colorful language.  I
grew up around construction workers and farm hands and thought I knew
some pretty colorful phrases.  But the night that Uncle Carl blew up
the pressure cooker down at the duck camp, we *all* heard things we'd 
never heard before that Uncle Carl had gathered from 40 years in
Marines beginning in World War One.

Uncle Carl was born in 1899, and lied about his age to get into WWI
and get away from home.  He ended up a cook in the Marine Corps and
tramped around the world through WWII, after which he retired and
became one of the family curmudgeons.  But he still loved to cook, and
hunt and fish, at which he was pretty good.

In Louisiana, every 16th section belongs to the Parish School Board
for revenue, and section 16 in Township 36 of Cameron Parish was just
north of the Federal Game Preserve, where there were old beach lines
with ancient oyster middens that gave the geese gravel for their
gizzards.   Those geese and ducks flocked across section 16 by the
thousands and we felt lucky to have the lease.  Every summer, we'd scout 
where we were going to place blinds, clean out ditches, etc, and in 
September, we'd make an expedition down to start the new season.  We'd 
cut truck loads of sea cane from the roadside and bundle it in long
bundles 2-3 meters tall, take rolls of chicken wire, 2x2 stakes, and
old concrete forms that were too rough to use for platforms.

It was about 15 miles down the inter coastal canal by boat caravan, all
loaded to the gills with sea cane, lumber, wire, fuel, food, guns,
tools, etc. to get the camp ready for the season.  September was
always hot and loaded with mosquitoes, but sometimes, an early Teal
season would eclipse our work expedition, and we would have duck gumbo
for supper after a hard day's work.  Uncle Carl was old enough to pull
seniority and not work the blinds-- he'd stay in the camp and cook,
and that man could make gumbo!

There was an old pressure cooker down there-- probably GI Surplus-- it
weighed a ton and probably held about 10 gallons-- it was a monster to
get off the stove when full, and it was seldom used unless the bunk
house was full and there were plenty of ducks.  Teal are small, and it
took a lot of teal to fill that thing.

As soon as we got down to the camp on Saturday, we'd unload and try to
make a late morning meat hunt for supper, and then we unloaded the boats 
and go back to the marsh without guns to begin working the blinds. 
Uncle Carl was left to chase out the summer's dust, rats and snakes 
while we hit the more laborious jobs.  We wouldn't come back in until 
dusk, when the birds were starting to fly on south to roost at the game
preserve.  He had the pressure cooker on the propane stove and we
could smell the gumbo.  We had every bunk filled and the younger boys
were going to have to sleep on the boats tonight-- the camp was full.

After everyone had washed up, gotten out of muddy hip boots and shook
out their gear on the bunks, we always had a poker game going.  This
night, there were too many people to play one table, and they had set
up another card table on the other side of the room from the kitchen
for a 2nd game while supper finished cooking.  Losers drifted between 
tables, or got pulled into the kitchen to chop or peel fixins for 
supper.  Uncle Carl gave the usual warning that it wouldn't be too much 
longer, but he'd been having trouble with the pressure cooker, and had 
had to jury rig the pop-off valve.  It was making funny noises, but who 
were we to argue with someone who'd fiddled with those things for 40 
years.

I don't remember where Uncle Carl was when the pressure cooker blew,
but we all remember his yell, "God DAMNNN!!!!" before the tirade
started.  After the initial reaction to dive for cover, we tried to
crowd into the kitchen to see what had happened.  There were ducks,
duck necks, gizzards, hearts, wings, backs, butts, onions, and roux on
almost every discernible surface of the kitchen, and as we stared in
amazement, the gravy on the ceiling of the little kitchen started to
find itself and a gentle roux rain begin.  The harder the roux fell,
the longer and louder Uncle Carl cussed.  He cussed a blue streak, a
mean river, almost a cadence, for several minutes while the elders
were trying to get him to shut up long enough to confirm that he wasn't
hurt.

*He* was hurt.  His pride was hurt.  His dignity was hurt.  His standing
as a Marine cook was hurt.  But he wasn't burned.  He'd always been
hard of hearing after WWII. But that night, the salvaged gumbo was as
tender as any I ever remember eating.

Dale
--
Dale M. Parish
5585 Ada
Beaumont TX 77708
parishdm at att.net