Sheep Shed Kitchen- Memories of the Emerald Isle II

I stand in the sheep shed kitchen and stare at the bloody venison roast, trying to figure out how on earth I’m going to make this for tonight’s dinner. The roast was a present from Aiden’s uncle, and I should make it before the uncle leaves tomorrow. The uncle is an avid hunter, I hear, an expensive sport in Ireland, and I’m betting this venison roast is a real prize, and I don’t want to mess this up.

Aiden (name changed) was the first Irish boy to become a camper at Comeragh Wilderness Camp, a therapeutic wilderness camp in County Waterford in the Sunny South of Ireland. The camp was based on models of camps in America, and we were just starting off, with one camper, mostly American staff, and makeshift buildings.

When I came on staff in September, the camp, located at the edge of the Comeragh Mountains, was two fields connected by a piney forest and a lane that had a stream rushing across it.

You could get to the upper field by taking a footpath through the forest, or by driving or walking up the lane. The footpath had a bridge that crossed the stream, but the lane did not. You had to ford the stream, or, if you were on foot, jump across the boulders at the edge of the lane.

The lower field had once been part of a farm. The property was graced with several small stone and concrete buildings, filled with rubbish and overgrown with ivy and weeds. (Mild winters and a population that hasn’t yet recovered from the 1840’s Potato Famine means lots of crumbling stone buildings in the Irish countryside. )

The upper field had a small cabin and was closer to the boys’ campsite in the woods. It was at this location the camp hoped to eventually build a real kitchen and dining hall, but the fall of 2012, it hadn’t happened yet.

As winter came closer, the pressure to start camp increased. Aiden’s mother had kept him out school to enroll him at camp. The camp was fully staffed, with a director, a family worker, a supervisor, a secretary, two counselors, a maintenance man, and a cook (me).

But we needed buildings, which proved to be hard to come by.

A mobile home that had been used as a missionary family’s guesthouse was installed for an office. When they hauled the former guesthouse to camp, the road was so narrow, the family worker had to ride on the top of the mobile home and trim tree branches.

The camp director wanted to live on-site, so he arranged for a moving company to bring a mobile home from England. “I sent the mover pictures to show it would be a hard spot to get a mobile home in. He thought it would be no problem,” our director, Wes, said.

I got to be one of the lucky spectators the afternoon the mobile home from England arrived. It was supposed to go into the lower field, on a stoop a little higher than the office. I don’t really remember the equipment used, but I do remember watching the field get muddier and muddier. I know it also lasted until after dark, because I remember seeing the glow from the Irishmen’s cigarettes.

The mover was unhappy with Wes, but, as Wes said, “He was warned.”

There wasn’t going to be a third mobile home for the kitchen. The dining cabin in the upper field had no electricity and wasn’t large enough anyway. So, the plan was that I would cook elsewhere, and have to drive the food to the dining cabin to serve it.

“We were looking around at the old buildings, and we looked at the sheep shed. We thought, hey, let’s clean it out, put a roof on top, and use it for a kitchen!” Wendell, the camp supervisor, told me.

The rubbish was cleared out and the old sheep shed soon had a roof, a door, and a window. I got the job of painting the interior with white masonry paint as thick as yogurt.

After I painted the walls, electricity and water were added, and the kitchen was ready for cooking, just a few days before camp opened.

There were a few problems. The rustic nature of the building meant finding earthworms on the floor in the mornings after a heavy rain. Moisture would collect on the skylights and drip down on the food and me. (That problem was fixed with a dehumidifier.)

It was a good-sized kitchen for one cook, and the mostly secondhand appliances mostly worked. Here you can see the kitchen, with the pantry in full view.

When camp launched, even with just one camper, the directors were determined to keep the same policies as the camp programs in America. For the cook, that meant a rigid meal schedule: breakfast at 9:00, lunch at 1:00, dinner at 6:00. Of course, since I was cooking off-site, I had to load the food, wrapped in towels to keep it warm, and drive it to the dining cabin (about 1/4 mile).

Even though there was only one boy, camp was running fully staffed, which meant there was from five to ten people at a meal. Since the camper and counselors lived outdoors and did rigorous work like chopping firewood and making trails, the menu was hearty and healthy.

On the November weekend that Aiden’s uncle, along with Aiden’s grandpa, came to visit and brought the venison roast, camp had been operating for several weeks. I had gotten used to the routine of cooking, loading the food in the van, driving through the stream, up the lane, parking, and carrying the food into the dining cabin.

Still, that venison roast made me nervous. I followed instructions how to make venison in a cookbook, and prepared potatoes and carrots alongside it. I prayed that the venison would be cooked right. “Lord, please let this meat cook properly” I prayed as the meat was in the oven. It was not a flippant, casual prayer.

When dinnertime came, I loaded the roast and the vegetables and the dessert in the white van, and drove up the lane and through the stream to the dining cabin. I unloaded everything and carried the meal inside. It was pitch dark already, and with no electricity, the only light was from kerosene lamps. Hot water for tea was heated on a wood-burning stove.

Aiden, his relatives, and his counselors had all spent the afternoon hiking. “Oh, you made the roast!” The uncle was surprised. “I wasn’t expecting you to make it today!”

The guys dug into the meal, and then I heard Aiden’s uncle say to him, “Look, you can tell this is cooked right— the meat still has a bit of blood in the center.” Later, he told me, “I’ve been worried about Aiden since he came to camp. I worry that he’s cold or lonely. But I never worry that he’s hungry!”

My prayer that the meat would turn out alright had been answered. I hadn’t actually meant to leave the venison with a bloody center. My family usually liked their meat well cooked (not that we splurged on roast a whole lot anyway). But the venison roast was delicious, it fed hungry hikers, and gave me what I most needed: a confidence that maybe I could do this!

Note: I cooked in the sheep shed for seven months, before the new kitchen and dining hall were built, greatly improving conditions.