Our Atlantic 70 cutter, Stressbuster, had just arrived in Paroikia, Paros, in Greece’s Cyclades Islands. My husband, Kostas, and I, along with five charter guests, had spent the previous two weeks island-hopping across the Aegean Sea from our base near Athens. The October weather was sublime: The Greeks call it “little summer.” It was a perfect end to the season.

This was our last charter of the year, and our guests would disembark here. Having said our goodbyes, we decided to take a lay day to clean the boat, reprovision, and visit with friends on Paros. Wind and weather in October can be erratic, so we’d allowed a week or more to deliver the boat lazily back to our dock in Salamina instead of doing a straight 100-mile shot. 

During the night, the wind picked up. By daylight, it was partly cloudy. The temperature had dropped considerably. We checked the updated forecast for the next days: winds increasing in strength from 25 knots to 30, then 35, with higher gusts possible, and seas 6 to 9 feet. 

Situated smack in the middle of the Aegean, the Cyclades are surrounded by open sea. Distances between islands are not short, and seas between them can build in a surprisingly short time. 

Our dock, on the outer pier at Paroikia’s public marina, was becoming uncomfortable. Along with a couple of other yachts, we arranged with the harbormaster to move to an inside space.

By the second morning, we had a steady 30-knot wind, north-northeast, with higher gusts. Beyond the harbor, seas were building. Out in the anchorage, there was a nasty chop. 

As the wind rose, the temperature dropped further. Lazing abovedecks was out of the question. That afternoon, a couple of stray bareboats limped in seeking shelter, their headsails shredded. 

We and other sailors wore heavy jackets for walks ashore. In town, late-season tourists in shorts and T-shirts scoured local shops for warm clothing. Freestanding taverna menu boards and trash bins did cartwheels. 

Late summer had suddenly become early winter. The Old Town was nearly deserted. Locals, wisely, stayed home. 

Later that day, forecasts began mentioning an omega block phenomenon. After 25 years of sailing the islands and studying Greek weather forecasts, I’d never heard of it, but I had learned one thing: When Greek meteorologists use the word “phenomenon,” pay attention. 

Conveniently, I had a Greek captain with a lifetime of ­experience sitting next to me.

“What’s an omega block?” I asked Kostas, scrolling through the forecast details. 

“A what?” he asked. 

An online search told us that an omega block is caused by disturbances in the jet stream. The omega block stops the normal progression of weather systems, sandwiching a high-pressure area ­between two low-pressure areas. On weather maps, the shape of the jet stream resembles the ­upper-case Greek letter ­omega: Ω. 

On the low-pressure sides, there is rain. In the squeezed high-pressure middle, the prevalent weather is fair, though sometimes cool and windy. Omega blocks can ­remain stationary for days. 

We were in the lower end of the high-pressure area, and we now know this: When you’re stuck in an omega block, the weather repeats itself daily like an annoying broken record. Down below on the boat, it was chilly. Our hatch faced north, so cold air wafted in. Wearing fleece and sweat pants, we hunkered down, worked a bit, read, and relaxed. Occasionally, other charter crew stopped by for coffee and to commiserate.

As dinnertime approached one night, I realized that my appetite had also switched seasons. Suddenly and desperately, I craved a heaping hot bowl of spicy homemade chili topped with gooey cheese—winter comfort food. 

We had everything we needed aboard except ground beef. We did have half a roasted chicken tucked in the fridge, a leftover from the previous night’s dinner that was earmarked for soup. Roasted-chicken chili? Getting beef meant a cold, windy walk to the supermarket. The chicken was ready to deploy.

An hour later, with the delicious aroma of slow-­simmered chili permeating and warming the cabin, we set the salon table, lit a battery-­operated candle (the illusion of warmth would do), and dug in. Soon, the hot meal and spices worked their magic. We were warm, content and, with full bellies, growing sleepy. 

The boat was secure. A cozy bunk and good books awaited. On a day when “little ­summer” had turned into “the big chill,” it was a perfect ­ending. Tomorrow was ­another day. 

Easy Roasted-Chicken Chili (serves 2)

• ¼ cup olive oil
• 1  medium onion, diced
• 2-3  garlic cloves, peeled and minced
• 1 12-ounce can chopped tomatoes
• 1 12-ounce can kidney beans (or black beans) 
• 1 7-ounce can Old El Paso Chopped Green Chiles
• 1 cube chicken bouillon 
• 1  tsp. chili powder
• ¼  tsp. ground cumin
• ¼ tsp. ground coriander
• red chili flakes, pinch (optional)
• salt and pepper, to taste*
• 3  cups cooked chicken breast meat, shredded 
• shredded cheddar, Gouda or Monterey Jack cheese, to taste
• chopped coriander, chives or green onions to garnish (optional)

* Bouillon may contain salt, so taste before adding more.

Add olive oil to a large stew pot over ­medium heat. Add onion. Sauté until onion begins to soften. Add garlic, sauté for about 1 minute. Add tomatoes, beans and green chiles, along with can juices. Add bouillon cube, chili powder, cumin and coriander. Stir. Simmer a few minutes to let flavors blend. Add salt and pepper to taste. 

Stir again, bring to a simmer, and then ­reduce heat to low or medium-low. ­Slow-simmer, partially covered, for about 30 minutes or until chili begins to thicken and flavors blend. If it gets too thick, add a splash of water. 

While it cooks: With your hands, shred chicken breast into bite-size chunks. Add to pot, stir, and simmer 10 to 15 minutes more. 

To serve, ladle hot chili into bowls. Top with shredded cheese and garnish if desired. 

Cook’s Note: If you don’t have leftover ­roasted chicken, then place a boneless chicken breast in a large, deep sauté pan with a lid. Add water to cover chicken. Poach for 10 to 15 minutes or until internal temperature reads 165 degrees ­Fahrenheit. Cool slightly before shredding. Add to ­simmering chili as above. 

Prep time: 1 hour
Difficulty: easy
Can be made: at anchor

Editor’s note: Got a favorite boat meal you’d like to share? Email us at editor@cruisingworld.com.

The post The Big Chill: Sailing Adventure & Comfort Food appeared first on Cruising World.

There were five of us aboard Freya, a Sun Odyssey 51, prepping for a transatlantic crossing, and the captain and paying crew, myself included, were discussing provisioning. We were about to set out on a cruise-and-learn voyage from Malaga, Spain, to Lanzarote, Canary Islands. I was a novice sailor then, ­only casual coastal sailing with family and friends. With my first nonstop offshore passage looming, my feelings were a mix of excitement and anxiety.

Food and diet were the last things on my mind, which was why I was ­surprised at the reaction of the others when I casually mentioned that I was vegan. The dismay on their faces was palpable.

“What do you mean, vegan? We get that you don’t eat red meat. But chicken and fish, dairy and eggs—those are OK, right?”

I can still remember their crestfallen faces at my answer: none of the above.

Now, years and many sea miles later, I know that provisioning for a long passage and preparing meals for the whole crew are not as straightforward as a novice might think, especially when sailing offshore.

I’d landed aboard Freya at a crossroads in my life. After years working in New York City, I’d returned to Italy, my home country. New York’s crazy rhythms had worn me out. The career satisfaction was no longer gratifying enough to justify the rat-race pace. I was looking for something different, but I wasn’t sure what. I decided to do something that took me way out of my comfort zone: I booked a passage aboard Freya, hoping to free my mind and learn a few things.

I wasn’t a sailor in any sense, but during previous coastal sailing trips, I’d glimpsed the possibility of a different life, one in total contact with nature, one that stressed the importance of the fundamentals ­rather than amassing wealth, material goods and stature. That approach to life seemed ­simple, though hardly ordinary. I reasoned that time at sea would give me time to think about my priorities, and knew I’d come back stronger. In that sense, I was ­absolutely right: The experience changed my life.

Our passage through the Strait of Gibraltar was what I’d anticipated most: the mythological Pillars of Hercules, the idea of having thousands of miles of open sea in front of me. I was ready for a ritual, a rite of passage I’d remember for a lifetime.

In all honesty, the passage itself was as boring as sailing gets. We motored through Gibraltar at dusk, avoiding large container ships and not speaking to one another as the captain gave endless instructions to all the still-learning crew on board. The strongest and fondest memory I have is from our third night at sea. A northerly wind kicked in along the coast of Morocco, and the boat, which was motoring on calm waters, began to dance with the wind and waves. The captain instructed us to hoist the main and pole out the genny to make the most of the breeze. Freya came alive. It felt like we were flying. A full moon hung in the night sky, the air was warm and smelled vaguely of sand, and our boat’s wake shone like a beacon in the dark night. I was hooked.

When we got to Lanzarote, I decided to join the boat’s next leg, from Tenerife, Canary Islands, to Martinique—transatlantic. I was ready. Since that time, I’ve never returned to land life or the 9-to-5 grind. Ten years on, I’m living and working aboard on coastal and offshore charters and deliveries, or in remote locales, whenever I get a chance.

During those two early, life-changing trips, my vegan diet wasn’t a problem. We all shared the cooking duties. At shared meals, I ate what I could (there was always something), but my mainstay was this ­cabbage salad.

I’ve since discovered that this versatile veggie is a sailor’s ally, vegan or not. Raw, boiled, roasted, stuffed, baked or in simple salads, the possibilities are endless. As a bonus, cabbage is packed with vitamins and minerals, particularly Vitamin C. In sailing eras past, it saved many sailors from disease—scurvy, in particular. It keeps for weeks, even unrefrigerated, and it’s the last veggie that’s not canned or frozen you’ll likely have on board at the end of a long passage.

Most sailors crave the “crunch” of a fresh salad as the days at sea go by, and this cabbage salad delivers that and more. The ingredients are all dry stores with extended shelf lives, making it a perfect ­offshore ­salad. Even if you’re not sailing across oceans, this long-lasting and versatile ­veggie always fills the bill.

Offshore Cabbage Salad

• 4 cups cabbage, sliced thinly
• ¼ cup sliced black olives (optional)
• 4 sun-dried tomatoes, chopped (or 2 Tbsp. raisins)
• 2 Tbsp. capers
• 2 Tbsp. slivered almonds or other nuts 
• salt and pepper to taste

Optional adds:

•     ¾ cup red cabbage, sliced thinly
•     ¼ cup carrot, grated

Mustard Vinaigrette:

• 3 Tbsp. olive oil 
• 1 Tbsp. lemon juice or red wine vinegar
• 1-2 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
• salt and pepper to taste

Note: If you prefer more dressing, double this. Refrigerate any that’s left over. 

Cut the cabbage in half. Cut each half into two wedges. Remove core. Slice wedges lengthwise into thin strips. (If strips are too long to eat comfortably, cut them in half.) Place in a large bowl. Add remaining ingredients, toss, and set aside while you make the dressing. Note: Store any unused cabbage in the fridge. 

For the dressing: Combine all ingredients, and whisk vigorously until dressing is ­emulsified. (If you don’t like or don’t have ­mustard, this simple dressing is fine without it.) Add dressing to assembled salad and toss. 

Before serving, let sit at room ­temperature for 10-30 minutes, allowing the ­cabbage to moisten, tenderize, and absorb the ­flavors of the dressing. 

Serves: 4
Prep time: 20 minutes
Difficulty: easy
Can be made: at anchor or underway

Cook’s Note: You can add or subtract any of the extras in this salad based on what you like or have on hand. For nonvegans, chopped anchovies and crumbled feta are also nice options.

Editor’s note: Got a favorite boat meal you’d like to share? Email us at editor@cruisingworld.com.

The post Cabbage: The Offshore Cruiser’s Secret Superfood appeared first on Cruising World.

It was the end of October in San Carlos, Mexico. My husband, Jeff, and I were back aboard Outrider, our Westsail 42, after several months spent up north. During hurricane season each year, we leave the boat tucked safely at a sheltered marina while we explore the beautiful western United States, land-cruising in our camper van. Getting resettled after being away always involves some long work-filled days.

This day was particularly hot. We’d labored for hours to relocate all the equipment and sails we’d stored belowdecks. After much lifting, pushing and shoving, we’d finally got everything back in place. 

As dinnertime neared, we were too overheated and exhausted to even think about cooking. The boat’s interior was already steaming; we had no wish to add to the heat by using the stove or oven, which weren’t working anyway. The propane was not yet reconnected, a task that required more energy than we were willing to expend right then.  

The idea of going out to eat was equally unappealing. We were tired, hot, in need of showers, and getting hungrier by the minute. Then, I had a thought.

In our camper van, we have a micro galley: a small upright fridge with a freezer, a microwave/convection oven, and a two-burner propane stove. As in Mexico, sometimes-intense summer heat makes us reluctant to cook inside our already hot van.

One evening this past summer, we’d met up with friends who are former yacht cruisers, now land-cruising in their own camper. It was one of those times when it was too hot to cook. We’d been traveling together for a few days, taking turns making dinner for four, which can be challenging in a van. That night was their turn. They’d bought a shelf-stable “heat and eat” pizza crust at a large grocery store, so they decided to try making pizza on the grill, adding tomato sauce, garlic, cured sausage, olives and lots of soft, melty cheese. Lacking a pizza pan or baking sheet, unsurprisingly, these former boat cooks improvised: They plonked it on a sheet of heavy-duty aluminum foil, doubled over, and put it on a medium-hot grill for 10 minutes. It exceeded our ­expectations: lovely melted cheese, crisp dough and ­excellent flavor. 

Flatbread pizzas became a staple of ours from then on. We stocked prepared crusts, and we even grilled pizza using frozen crusts, with excellent results. At first it took a bit of finessing to determine the right temperature and cooking time, but we loved the convenience of being able to pull one out whenever it was too hot to cook inside, or when we felt like eating pizza miles from the nearest pizza joint.

Back aboard Outrider, I’d suddenly realized that our Magma propane grill was working. Why not grill pizza? We’d done basic provisioning after arriving, so I had tomato sauce and garlic aboard, and I’d bought olives, cheese and pepperoni for snacks. I’d also bought basics such as flour, eggs and olive oil. Alas, we had no premade crust.

In the US, it’s easy to purchase ready-made pizza dough, either shelf-stable crusts (such as Boboli) or frozen dough. In Mexico, where we were, none of these are available. Then I remembered that, years ago, I’d made a quick stovetop flatbread a few times. It required only 4 minutes of cooking time on the stovetop—not long enough to overheat the boat. It would be perfect.

Roughly 30 minutes and minimal effort later, we sat in Outrider’s cockpit in the cool shadow of Tetakawi Mountain, feasting on freshly made pizza, warm and gooey from the grill. It was delicious. As we munched pizza and sipped ice-cold beers, we agreed that this easy, speedy meal was the perfect way to end a long, hot day of boatwork.

Quick and Easy Grilled Pizza (Yields two 7- to 8-inch pizzas)

• 1 10-inch frozen pizza crust (or Quick Flatbread Crust, recipe below)
• Olive oil, for brushing
• 1 clove garlic, chopped finely (optional)
• ½ cup pizza or tomato sauce
• 1 cup mozzarella (or any soft cheese), shredded
• 12-14 pepperoni slices
• ¼ cup black olives, sliced 
• A few fresh basil or arugula leaves, if available

Lightly brush with oil a pizza pan, baking sheet, or heavy-duty aluminum foil, folded double. Lay dough or flatbread on top. Brush top of dough/flatbread with oil. With the back of a large spoon, spread sauce evenly over crust. Sprinkle garlic evenly over the sauce. Add ½ cup cheese. Place pepperoni at even intervals around pizza. Sprinkle with black olives. Add remaining ½ cup cheese. 

Heat propane grill to 350 to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the pizza or sheet pan on the grill, close the lid, and cook for 5 minutes. Check the crust bottom for browning. If more time is needed, close the lid and cook for another 3 to 5 minutes, or until the crust is browned and cheese is melted. (Grill temperatures vary widely; you might need to experiment to find the perfect cooking time and temperature on your own grill.) 

Slice and serve warm. Sprinkle with a few fresh basil or arugula leaves, if available.

Quick Flatbread Crust

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1½ tsp. baking powder
• 1 tsp. fine salt
• 2 Tbsp. olive oil 
• ½ cup plus 1 to 2 Tbsp. cold water
• Additional olive oil for cooking

Add flour, baking powder and salt to a large bowl. Whisk to combine. Make a dent in the center of the mix. Add olive oil and ½ cup of water. Mix with a wooden spoon until dough comes together in a shaggy ball. If it seems too dry, add more water, 1 tablespoon at a time. Transfer to a floured surface and knead until you have a smooth ball, about 1 minute. Let rest on the ­counter, covered with a clean dish towel, or wrap loosely in plastic, and chill for 10 minutes (or longer, up to overnight).

Divide dough in half. Sprinkle with flour, then press or roll out into 7- to 8-inch rounds about ¼-inch thick. (Shape might be irregular.) Using a fork, lightly poke holes in dough. Brush top with oil. 

Heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a 10-inch ­skillet over medium heat. When oil is hot, add a flatbread crust, and cook for about ­­2 ­minutes. Flip and brown the other side for 2 minutes more; remove. Repeat for the other crust. 

Top the pizzas, and grill per recipe above. (Divide topping amounts in half.) Dough can also be frozen for up to 1 month.

Cook’s note: You can use your preferred toppings to create your own favorite grilled pizza. For grilling, go easy on the tomato sauce to avoid soggy pizza.

Prep time: 25 minutes
Difficulty: Easy
Can be made: At anchor

Editor’s note: Got a favorite boat meal you’d like to share? Email us at editor@cruisingworld.com.

The post Grilled Pizza Bliss: The Perfect Post-Boatwork Treat appeared first on Cruising World.

I confess: Beyond boiling eggs or making coffee, I’ve never been much good in the galley. I cook when I have to, and tell guests that my forgettable meals are hot, will keep them alive, and…would anyone else like to cook?

A trip through the Bahamas on my Catalina 34 changed all that.

I’d bought the boat years before, after crewing on other people’s boats. Eventually, I found the 1992 Catalina 34 for sale: long waterline, large sail area, and lines leading aft for good singlehanding capability. Below, the boat had a roomy salon, a galley and a comfortable V-berth—perfect. My fiancé, Kanako, was brand-new to sailing back then, but she was enthusiastic. We both liked what we saw.

I signed the papers, cast off the lines, and discovered that there’s a big difference between sailing a Hobie 16 and sailing a larger keelboat. I well remember the knots in my stomach every time we left the dock, and my frustrating attempts to avoid solid objects. How in the world, I lamented, were the two of us going to manage this boat?

The answer: lots of ­practice. Together we christened her Ukiyo, Japanese for “the floating world.” We were married on the foredeck and got underway the same day; to my delight, Kanako quickly picked up the basics and stood her watches as we traveled through the Florida Keys and up the East Coast to the Chesapeake Bay, anchoring and dodging hurricanes as we went.

Years of sailing later, I decided to take a hiatus from my job to fulfill a long-held dream: a solo voyage through the Bahamas. Like me, the boat had aged. After a boisterous solo crossing to Nassau, I was having almost daily maintenance issues. With each new out island came a vexing new problem: an electrical short circuit, a broken steering cable, a leaky freshwater pump. I learned humbling lessons on self-sufficiency and, most of all, the importance of bringing spare parts for everything. But even then I knew that it was just part of the adventure of voyaging far afield.

On a passage to Warderick Wells, the autopilot started shutting down. (Never ask “What else can go wrong?” on a boat.) The four lead-acid batteries were old. Despite charging daily with a solar panel and the engine, they wouldn’t hold voltage.

This could have been a deal-breaker—the beauty of the Bahamas comes with a paucity of marine services. I had to find my own solution. At anchor, I jealously guarded the house bank by eschewing the cabin lights in favor of an oil lamp and listening to Cuban stations on the portable AM radio. For an anchor light, I used a solar garden lamp from a big-box store.

What about meals? Using the fridge was out of the question. Warm beer, boiled pasta, tomato sauce and canned chicken got old really fast. 

Rooting through the galley shelves one night, I came across a recipe tucked into an old book I’d picked up at a yard sale, handwritten on a yellowing piece of paper. It was for home-baked bread. In my ­naivete, I nearly crumpled it—I’d never baked anything resembling bread. Surely it would require culinary expertise. And ­refrigerated ingredients. 

However, I also knew that bread took time, which I had in abundance. My propane oven used only a soupçon of electricity—another plus. As I paused to read the ingredients, I realized that I had everything required, right down to the warm beer. Desperate for something tasty, I decided to take a gamble and try it.

I followed those fading directions like a surgeon taking a certification exam. By the following evening, as the sun slid down while I read a book in the cockpit, a delightful aroma wafted up from the galley. In the log, I wrote: “Skipper treats crew to fresh-baked bread!” 

For the first time, I looked forward to dinners on board, and was OK with the possibility that other things might break, as long as the oven kept working.

Solo Sailor’s Easy Bread Recipe (yields an 8½-inch round loaf)

Ingredients

• 3 cups all-purpose flour
• 1½ tsp. salt
• ¼ tsp. instant or rapid-rise yeast
• 1 cup lukewarm water
• 6 tablespoons mild lager beer, room temperature
• 1 Tbsp. white vinegar
• ½ cup nuts or raisins (optional)
• vegetable oil or cooking spray

Note: You’ll need a 9-by-4-inch ovenproof pot with a lid.

Preparation

Mix flour, salt and yeast in a large bowl. Add water, beer and vinegar. Stir and fold repeatedly until a shaggy ball is formed. Cover bowl tightly with plastic wrap, and let rise in a warm, draft-free spot for 8 to 10 hours.

Add nuts or raisins to dough, if using. Knead dough until stretchy and elastic. Shape into a round loaf. 

Line the pot with baking paper, and spray or brush with oil. Add dough. Cover pot with plastic wrap again, and let rise until ­doubled, up to 2 hours. 

Preheat oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit. Lightly flour dough top, and use a sharp knife or razor to make a ½-inch-deep gash in it. Place the lid on the pot and bake for 30 minutes. 

Remove the lid and continue to bake until the crust is deep brown (10 to 20 minutes). Transfer to a wire rack and cool for about 2 hours before slicing, if you can wait that long.

Prep time: 12 hours, including rise times
Difficulty: easy
Best made: at anchor

Cook’s Note: Adding a small amount of ­vinegar to bread dough improves elasticity and texture, enhances browning, and helps keep bread fresh longer.    

Editor’s note: Got a favorite boat meal you’d like to share? Email us at editor@cruisingworld.com.

The post Sailor & Galley: How Baking Bread Saved My Voyage appeared first on Cruising World.

We were sailing in French Polynesia, exploring Raiatea and nearby Taha’a, about 130 miles from Tahiti. For all six Lake Superior sailors aboard Gauguin, our chartered Beneteau 43, this was living the dream. We’d all imagined sailing to the South Pacific in our own boats someday. In reality, we’d finally conceded that chartering was the next best thing. Even better, it allowed us to live a shared dream with friends.

The sailing was as spectacular as our dreams. Never before had we seen such beautiful expanses of water. We had our choice of pristine anchorages to explore. Everywhere, we met friendly, French-speaking people. All this, combined with the heady scent of tropical flowers nearshore, made us downright giddy. We were still enthusing about a sight we’d seen during a stopover on Tahiti, en route to Raiatea by air: Boxes sat outside homes like Western mailboxes—not awaiting mail, but the daily baguette delivery! We all agreed we’d prefer fresh baguettes to junk mail any day.

After a couple of days sailing and exploring, our starter provisions were running low. Critically, we were out of ice. The next day, we planned to cross to Bora Bora—a longer sail—so we headed to Raiatea’s main town, Uturoa, which has a supermarket. 

Provisioning the next morning would prove challenging. The shopping list was divided among the crew so that we didn’t overwhelm the store by appearing en masse. Everyone had assigned items, but my husband, Radd, had been given only one: ice. 

There was a reason for this. On past cruises, he’d earned a reputation for returning from provisioning runs with large quantities of everything except what was on his list. Once, he’d returned with an enormous bag of lemons, because, as he proudly exclaimed: “They were a good deal!” (We made lemonade.)

On past cruises, Radd had earned a reputation for returning from provisioning runs with large quantities of everything except what was on his list.

In Uturoa, we soon realized that provisioning would take longer than we’d thought. All the labels were (of course) only in French, so none of us were completely sure what we were buying. Locating lighter fluid for the stern grill was particularly ­interesting. Thankfully, the produce section was easier.

By the time five of us had regrouped on board and stowed our assigned supplies, Radd the iceman was still nowhere to be seen. His absence didn’t bode well. Before long, he appeared on the dock, carrying a large white bag with no label. 

“The iceman cometh!” somebody shouted. We let out a ­collective cheer. 

He quickly popped the bag in the fridge below as we got ­underway. After a perfect day’s sail, we were safely anchored in Bora Bora, ready for a swim and an icy cocktail. 

We waited with anticipation as the precious white bag was slit open. Glasses were at the ready. And inside, we saw…frozen french fries. About 2 pounds of them. 

After the moans, groans, laughter and ribbing subsided, we weighed our options. There were exactly two: warm cocktails, with a side of plain fries as our hors d’oeuvre. 

The next day, I decided to get creative. I had aioli on my mind. Its origins are in France, and we were in French territory. Why not use it as a dip for fries? 

Traditional aioli is made by blending olive oil, garlic and a bit of acidic lemon juice, sometimes with raw egg yolk added. We had mayonnaise, which contains oil, eggs and acidic vinegar. We had garlic. I decided to try an improvised version. For color, I added a bit of ketchup, and for zing, a little spicy mustard. I served the “easy pink aioli” on a platter surrounded by oven-baked frozen fries. It was a hit. 

We’ll certainly never forget French Polynesia, but some of our best cruising memories are intertwined with food. Every year, we gather to reminisce about that trip, to share laughs and memories. We snack on (you guessed it) frozen fries and pink aioli. With frosty cocktails, we toast to far-flung sailing adventures with good friends—and to Radd, our iceman, who now makes sure we always have plenty of cubes.

Easy Pink Aioli Dip 

• 1 cup good-quality mayonnaise
• ½ cup (or less, to taste) good-quality ketchup
• 2 tsp. spicy brown or Dijon mustard
• 2-4 cloves garlic, or to taste
• ½ tsp. salt
• ½ tsp. black pepper
• Squeeze of fresh lemon juice (optional)
• 1 small bunch parsley, for garnish (optional)
• 3 oz. frozen french fries per person
• Yields: 1¼ cup of dip

Place mayonnaise in a small mixing bowl. Mix in ketchup and mustard. Stir to combine. 

Smash garlic and then finely mince. Add to bowl and mix well. Season with salt and pepper, stir, then taste and adjust ­seasonings, if needed. Add lemon juice (start with a small amount and add more to taste). Chill for 30 minutes to 1 hour to let flavors blend. 

Prepare frozen fries according to package directions. Alternatively, you can use fresh potatoes to make fries. This dip is also great with chips, crackers, bread and sliced raw veggies.

To serve, transfer aioli to a bowl, place on a platter, and surround with fries. Garnish with sliced lemon and parsley.

Cook’s Note: Aioli will keep for 3 days in the fridge in an airtight container.

Prep time: 15 minutes plus chill time
Difficulty: easy
Can be made: at anchor or underway

Calling all boat cooks! If you have a favorite galley recipe, we’d love to see it. Email your recipe, the story behind it, and two or three high-resolution digital photos of you aboard your boat to editor@cruisingworld.com.

The post Sailor & Galley: Easy Pink Aioli Dip appeared first on Cruising World.

My husband, David, and I started our cruising life on a 20-foot trailerable boat. At the time, neither of us had ever taken the helm, but we were avid expedition sea kayakers keen to go farther and see more. More than 20 years later, we’re on boat number five. In all that time, we’ve never lived on land. 

Our daughter, Maya, now age 12, was born onto Footprints, our Wharram Tiki 31 (boat number three). She took her first overseas passage on our fourth boat, Storyteller, a 35-foot Hitchhiker catamaran. 

Now, all three of us are partway into our first circumnavigation on our fifth boat, Wild One, a 41-foot Grainger catamaran. Our registered home port is Darwin, Australia, but we call Cairns home. We’re all drawn to the sea—an endless horizon that reminds us the world is bigger than we are. Besides sailing, there’s other fun to be had: riding waves, ogling underwater life, and catching meals that come unwrapped, fresh from the source to the table.

Every day at sea is different, even after 20 years afloat. There are inspiring days of such magnificence that we smile just remembering them. Sometimes, days that are blissful and fun can turn challenging in a heartbeat. Yet all of this brings an intimate connection with nature and the sea that, while not always peaceful, is deeply enriching. 

On one of those “challenging” days, our meal from the sea came from an entirely unexpected source. We’d been sailing since midnight and were braving trade-wind swells inside the Great Barrier Reef. We raced ahead of gale-force winds gathering quickly to the south. Stormy squalls hid the horizon. There was no place to hide, but we hoped to be tucked around the tip of Cape York and safely at anchor before the weather really went to hell.

The fishing dory came out of nowhere, tossed clean out of the sea, its propeller spinning midair atop an enormous cresting wave. It veered toward us, maneuvering parallel with our surfing catamaran as we battled to hold course. 

Over the roar of the waves, we confirmed two things: Yes, we were indeed all mad bastards, and yes, we would most definitely like a catch of fresh painted crays (as we call our local spiny lobsters in Australia). These were thrown over our rails as we surfed wildly at 13 knots. 

Dave gripped the helm to keep the boats a safe distance apart. I moved quickly to scoop up the crays before the sea washing over the aft rail claimed them back again.

Minutes later, the dory peeled away, back to its mothership rolling at anchor behind the slenderest of sand cays. With dinner in the bag, we continued, eventually coasting alone through Albany Passage at dusk. We rounded Cape York as the sea finally calmed.

To live on the sea is a dream that many of us turn into reality. Whether at sea full time or only seasonally, sailors everywhere are united by the watery adventures that we take. We’re bonded by the feeling that life is better, simpler and richer when we live it on or near the sea—and most of us agree that a good meal after a challenging passage is always a magnificent one. 

After Wild One was safely anchored, we reveled in one of those moments of magnificence. As we savored our dinner of buttery, delicious, pan-fried lobster tails, we lifted our last cold drinks in a toast: to an outstanding day at sea, a tip-of-Australia sunset, and the generous fisherman who’d gifted us dinner.

Buttery Pan-Fried Lobster Tails (serves 2)

• 2 spiny lobsters
• ¼ cup butter, softened
• 3 garlic cloves (or to taste), minced or crushed 
• 3-4 Tbsp. dry white wine
• 2 Tbsp. fresh-squeezed lemon or lime juice 
• Salt and black pepper, to taste
• Few sprigs of fresh parsley, chopped, plus extra for garnish (optional)

Prep the Lobster

We freeze live lobsters for up to 1 hour before cutting, rendering them motionless and inducing a numb, sleeplike state. Using a sharp knife, make one rapid cut through the centerline connecting the head, chest, abdomen and tail. Separate the halves, then twist and break the tail pieces away from the head (or cut apart with a knife). Pull out any intestines running down the middle of the tail and discard. With sharp scissors or kitchen shears, snip away any spiny bits covering the tail meat. Give the tails a quick rinse, and briefly set aside. (If you catch enough, you can save the lobster heads to make stock.)

Melt butter over low or medium-low heat in a pot big enough to hold tail pieces along the bottom. Add garlic, and gently sauté for about one minute. Add white wine and simmer briefly, until slightly reduced. Add the lemon or lime juice. Add salt and pepper and 1 tablespoon parsley, if using. Whisk to combine. Immediately remove from heat. Pour the sauce into a small bowl, leaving only a flavorful coating in your pot. 

Return pot to stove, keeping heat low to medium-low. Add lobster tails, meat side down, and gently sauté (cook time will depend on tail size; average is 5 to 10 minutes). Turn and brush both sides of tails with sauce as they cook. After 5 minutes, check for doneness. If more time is needed, check frequently. Lobster is cooked when meat turns opaque white, with no areas of translucent, grayish flesh. Cooked lobster should easily part from the shell when gently prodded with a fork. To serve, arrange tails on a plate, sprinkle with parsley, and garnish with sliced lemons or limes.

Editor’s Note: This is an edited excerpt from The Hunter & The Gatherer: Cooking and Provisioning for Sailing Adventures by Catherine Lawson and David Bristow.

Calling all galley gourmets! Do you have a personal favorite galley recipe you’d like to share? We’d love to see it. Email your recipe, the story behind it, and two or three high-resolution digital photos of you aboard your boat to editor@cruisingworld.com.

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I heard a loud splash at the end of the dock just as I hit “brew” on the coffee maker.

It was 0630. We were docked stern-to on Poros Island, in Greece’s Saronic Gulf. I was in the galley aboard Stressbuster, our Atlantic 70 cutter, setting up for breakfast. All was silent behind the closed cabin doors. It appeared that our charter guests, two fun-loving Australian couples, were sleeping. 

I popped up the companionway to see what was up outside.

Nothing was up, but something large was down—and it was in the water heading toward our stern. I realized the shape was human before it hit me: It was one of our humans! Evidently, one guest had risen early and gone walkabout.

Swimming in busy yacht harbors in Greece is a no-go; our guests knew this. The stream of creative ­expletives from the easygoing Aussie in the drink confirmed my hunch: His morning swim had not been intentional. Also, he was fully clothed. 

My husband, Kostas, the ever-vigilant captain, materialized beside me. “Pete, you OK?” he asked, offering a hand as Pete climbed our swim ladder. 

“No. I mean, yeah, I’m fine, mate, but I’m a bloody idiot,” he fumed. “I was awake early, so I took a stroll. I was looking around instead of down and walked straight off the bloody dock. And I had this in my pocket,” he said, holding up a sodden wallet. He flung it down in disgust. 

“Never mind,” I told him as I ducked below for a beach towel. “We’ll dry it all out.” 

“Crikey, I’m bloody embarrassed,” he went on, shaking his head. I assured him no one else had seen—we were the only three people awake on the dock. As I balmed his bruised ego, I sent silent thanks skyward that no other part of him had been injured. 

While Pete rinsed off with the deck shower, I fast-walked to the bakery for extra bread. I had something in mind that was guaranteed to soothe his soul.

When I was growing up, my mother’s go-to remedy for anyone in a mood in the ­morning was caramelized cinnamon toast. The aroma alone launched us out of bed and to the table.

When I returned, he had followed my advice and spread the contents of the beleaguered wallet under the dodger to dry. His wet shirt dripped from the lifelines. He’d poured ­himself a coffee and sat on the sun bed, sipping morosely. “I guess I should wake everybody up for breakfast,” he said with a loud sigh. 

Crikey. The man was, as my mom used to say, in a mood.

“Relax,” I replied. “And leave it to me.” 

When I was growing up, my mother’s go-to remedy for anyone in a mood in the morning was caramelized cinnamon toast. It also worked to rouse dedicated ­sleepers. The aroma alone launched ​us out of bed and to the table. “Just what the doctor ordered,” she’d chirp as she put the platter in front of us. I’ve made her toast ever since, in a mood or not.

In the galley, I got to work. Minutes later, the heavenly scent of toasting butter and cinnamon filled the boat. I looked at my watch: 3, 2, 1…

Cabin doors flung open. The sleepers had launched. “What are you making?” they asked in full chorus, rubbing their eyes. “Oh, my God. It smells good!”

While everyone helped themselves to coffee and continental breakfast fare, I finished the toast and put the platter on the table.

As they ate, I heard yawns and “yums.” Then the group went silent. 

I glanced up. All eyes were on Pete’s wife, Olivia, who was poised over the toast, snapping photos. “Lynda, I’m posting everywhere about our American cook in Greece who makes this unbelievably brilliant cinnamon toast,” she said. “You’re going
to be famous in Oz.”

I laughed. Fame didn’t interest me, but Pete’s mood did.

“What do you think, Pete?” I asked. 

“I reckon this is the best bloody cinnamon toast I’ve ever eaten in my life,” he answered, lifting his coffee mug in my direction. “And this morning in particular, I’d say it’s justwhat the doctor ordered.”

He was grinning from ear to ear.

Caramelized Cinnamon Toast

• ¹/2 cup salted butter, plus 1-2 ­ tablespoons for pan 
• 1/3 cup white sugar
• 1 tablespoon cinnamon
• 8 slices bread
• 1 apple (optional)
• Sprig of fresh mint (optional)

Note: For large bread slices or more ­servings, double the recipe. Save extra sugar-cinnamon mix for future use. You can use any type of bread, but I prefer fresh. The texture is firmer, and it absorbs butter better. 

Use soft butter or soften stick butter until easily spreadable. In a small bowl, combine sugar and cinnamon. Mix thoroughly, then spread out evenly on a dinner plate. 

Spread softened butter over both sides of bread slices, then dredge each side in sugar-cinnamon mix. Set aside. 

Briefly preheat a large nonstick pan over low-medium heat. Add 1 tablespoon butter to the pan. As soon as butter melts, add bread slices, three or four at a time. Toast over low-medium heat for about 1 or 2 minutes per side, moving toast around in pan to absorb butter. Toast until sugar caramelizes and bread begins to brown, being careful not to let butter or sugar burn.

Serve warm on a large platter with optional garnishes of sliced apple and a sprig of mint. Dust platter with additional sugar-cinnamon mix.

Cook’s Notes: Using salted butter is critical to counteract the sweetness and get a slightly salty-sweet taste. White sugar is best for quick caramelizing. This is a great way to use day-old fresh bread.

Difficulty: easy
Prep time: 15-20 minutes
Can be made: at anchor or underway

Calling all boat cooks! If you have a favorite galley recipe, we’d love to see it. Email your recipe, the story behind it, and two or three high-resolution digital photos of you aboard your boat to editor@cruisingworld.com.

The post Sailor & Galley: The Best Cinnamon Toast Recipe Ever appeared first on Cruising World.

You may have heard the saying: Life is like ice cream. Eat it before it melts. 

My husband, Jeff, and I fully embrace this idea for living life to its fullest. We spend most of every year living aboard and cruising our Westsail 42, Outrider, based in San Carlos, Mexico. 

We’re also fans of actual ice cream, but that part of living the good life was elusive on Outrider until recently. Limited freezer capacity meant that, when cravings struck, we were forced to go ashore for a fix. Storing a half-gallon of ice cream on the boat was just not possible.

Not long ago, I was aboard Outrider doing chores when, weary and warm, I craved ice cream. I wasn’t in the mood to go ashore to get it, so instead, I decided to try making it. I knew it was doable; my mother always made her own without much fanfare. Unfortunately, I’d never learned how. All I could remember about her recipe was one ingredient: condensed milk. 

An online search for that ­ingredient netted several recipes. I chose the least-­complicated one. It looked quick and easy. Eventually, I did go ashore—to the supermarket for ingredients—and, back aboard Outrider, I ­dutifully followed the recipe.

“Pour whipping cream into a bowl and beat until it forms a peak,” it instructed. I have only a hand whisk on board. Thirty minutes of increasingly frenetic agitating later, the cream hadn’t whipped into anything resembling a peak. It was as flat as a prairie. Frustrated but determined, I followed the remaining instructions, fearing that this whole exercise was turning into an epic fail. 

With nothing to lose, I poured the mixture into a quart-size freezer container and made space in the freezer. Six hours later, it was ready. The recipe said to eat it within two weeks. Were they kidding? We polished off half of it that night. It was good.

Despite my love of ice cream, I knew I wouldn’t repeat that time-consuming drill every time we craved it, which was often. Fresh whipping cream as an ingredient was also a minus; it’s not a priority when it comes to fridge stowage, and its shelf life is short. 

Perusing local grocery store shelves, I spied an old favorite: Nestle Media Crema—canned table cream. I knew that it was a thick cream, so I decided to give it a try. I grabbed two cans, plus a bottle of vanilla extract and a can of sweetened condensed milk. 

Back on board, I ditched the whipping process and instead whisked the cream for two to three minutes, then added the condensed milk and vanilla extract, and whisked briefly again. I poured the mixture into my container, stuck it in the freezer, and crossed my fingers. 

Wondrously, this ice cream was far superior to the first batch. It was delicious and creamy, sweet and smooth. It was perfect. 

A few weeks later, we set sail before sunrise for a crossing of the Sea of Cortez, bound for Playa Santispac in Bahia Concepcion on the Baja peninsula. About 15 miles out, just as we encountered a line of shrimp boats dragging nets, alarms began sounding. The autopilot flashed a communications error, and the depth sounder stopped working. There was an odd ticking sound coming from somewhere. We swung back toward the marina to sort things out. 

To ease our disappointment, I whipped up a batch of ice cream while we sailed. Safely back in our slip, we relaxed and savored bowls of vanilla perfection, our troubles fading with every delicious spoonful. 

Homemade ice cream on board anytime, anywhere. If that isn’t living the good life, what is? Just remember to eat it before it melts.

Super-Easy Ice Cream (Yields: About 1 quart or 10 scoops)

• 2 7.6-oz. cans Nestle Table Cream*
• 1 14-oz. can sweetened condensed milk
• 1½ Tbsp. vanilla extract or other flavoring
• 1 cup strawberries, halved, or other berries (optional)
• Chocolate or other syrup for topping (optional)

* Also sold as Nestle Media Crema. Consistency of other brands may vary.

Pour canned cream into a large bowl. Whisk by hand for 2 to 3 minutes. Add sweetened condensed milk and vanilla extract. Whisk another 2 minutes, or until smooth. 

Pour mixture into 1-quart freezer container, or divide among smaller containers, and cover with lids. Place in the freezer for at least 6 hours, or overnight. 

Top with syrup and fresh berries, if ­available and desired.

Cook’s Notes: For fruity ice cream, blend and strain 1 cup berries, then add to ice cream mix before freezing. Or cook berries on stovetop with 1 teaspoon water and ¼ cup sugar for roughly 15 minutes. Strain, cool, and ­drizzle on top of the mix to form swirls. 

Prep time: 20 minutes, plus freezing time
Difficulty: Easy
Can be made: At anchor or underway

Calling all boat cooks! If you have a favorite galley recipe, we’d love to see it. Email your recipe, the story behind it, and two or three high-resolution digital photos of you aboard your boat to editor@cruisingworld.com.

The post Sailor & Galley: Ice Cream, Anytime appeared first on Cruising World.

The overnight passage offshore began, as usual, with­ ­exuberance. We were off! As the day wore on, time slowed. We relaxed. The dark of night descended. I was on watch in the cockpit of Simple Life, our Island Packet 37, while my husband, Joe, rested below. As we surged forward into blackness, my mind wandered. Besides imagining plowing into a snoozing whale or striking a submerged container, I was ­contemplating something pleasant: fresh shrimp.

We’d departed Port Royal Island, South Carolina, that morning, bound for St. Marys Inlet at the Georgia-Florida border and, ultimately, Fernandina Beach. Now we were fast approaching what I call the “land of shrimp.” It’s a hub where, thanks to the commercial boats plying the waters day and night, you can find an abundance of the freshest, finest shrimp you’ve ever tasted. 

During seasonal migrations south from our home port of Pawtuxet Cove, Rhode Island, we’ve logged numerous overnight passages. The Intracoastal Waterway is one of the most popular routes south from New England, but we’ve learned over the years that sailing offshore, while sometimes tiring, is generally less stressful. Especially in the Georgia marshes along the ICW, shoals abound, requiring constant vigilance with charts and at the helm to avoid groundings. Offshore, we have plenty of water.

The sun was rising as we approached the border. From my perch at the helm, sunrise was a welcome sight. Joe got up and prepared to take his watch, and I steered Simple Life west toward the inlet. Conditions overnight had been manageable, but now we had a stronger breeze. Seas began building just as Joe appeared, to take the helm. Soon, a large following sea ushered Simple Life down each wave toward the inlet. 

I spotted three local shrimp boats ­already plying the waters at daybreak, and thought about that night’s dinner: shrimp Mozambique. I’d first sampled this delicious dish in Portuguese restaurants in Fall River and New Bedford, Massachusetts, not far from our home port. I loved it so much that it inspired me to make my own version.

The last couple of miles into the inlet seemed to take hours. After a well-earned nap, I spent the early afternoon zipping ashore in the dingy, headed for Atlantic Seafood Fish Market. 

Located directly on the shrimp-boat docks, it has some of the freshest shrimp on the Eastern Seaboard. The crustaceans I bought probably were swimming beside us as we aimed for the inlet that morning.

This recipe, rooted in the former Portuguese colony of Mozambique in East Africa, is rich with spices and flavor. I’ve shared it with many cruising friends who now regard it as their go-to recipe for entertaining guests aboard, or whenever they’re lucky enough to find fresh shrimp.

Shrimp Mozambique (serves 2)

• 1 packet Sazón Goya con Azafran or 1½ tsp. homemade shrimp spice mix (see below) 
• 3 cloves garlic, minced 
• ¼-½ tsp. crushed red pepper, or to taste
• ½ tsp. salt, kosher if possible
• ¼ tsp. pepper, or to taste
• 1 2-14 medium or large fresh shrimp, peeled and deveined*
• 3-4 threads saffron 
• ½ cup beer 
• 1½ Tbsp. butter 
• 1 Tbsp. olive oil 
• 1 medium or large sweet onion, chopped finely 
• 1½ Tbsp. freshly chopped parsley, or 1 Tbsp. dried 
• 1½ tsp. additional butter
• 1 Tbsp. cornstarch dissolved in ½ cup cold water 
• 3 green onions, sliced for garnish 
• * Frozen shrimp, thawed, can be substituted. 

In a small mixing bowl, combine either Sazón Goya or 1½ tsp. homemade spice mix with garlic, red pepper, salt and pepper. Mix with a fork and set aside. 

If using fresh shrimp, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and set aside. If using frozen shrimp, skip the salt. 

Immerse saffron threads in beer, and set aside.

In a large saute pan, heat 1½ Tbsp. butter and the olive oil until melted. Add onion, and cook over medium heat until translucent. Add spice-garlic-red pepper mixture. Cook while stirring, 1 to 2 minutes. Add the beer with infused saffron, bring to a boil, and ­reduce for 2 minutes. 

Add the shrimp, parsley and remaining butter. When shrimp have begun to curl and turn pink, remove them to a bowl, then cover. 

Add cornstarch-water mixture to the pan, stirring constantly until the sauce is ­thickened. Return the shrimp to the sauce. Stir until warmed. 

Serve immediately over rice. Garnish with green onions and additional chopped parsley.

Homemade Shrimp Spice Mix

If not using Sazón Goya, mix together in advance: 1 Tbsp. each of ground coriander, ground cumin, turmeric, garlic powder, and kosher salt with 2 tsp. ground oregano and 1 tsp. ground black pepper. Save extra for future use.

Cook’s Note: If you’re doubling this recipe, do not add more Sazón Goya or spice mix. 

Prep time: 45 minutes
Difficulty: Easy
Can be made: At anchor

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Thirteen years ago, my husband, Christian, and I set sail from Croatia aboard our Sparkman & Stephens 41, Pitufa. We cruised the Mediterranean, the Atlantic and the Caribbean, and then sailed on to the South Pacific, where we’ve been cruising for the past decade. 

Life was good until we reached Tonga, where Christian began losing weight at an alarming rate. He ate well, and local doctors couldn’t find anything wrong. We were getting desperate, when a cruising friend, a retired ­doctor, made a ­suggestion: “Why don’t you try a ­gluten-free diet?”

We were already eating a healthy, pescatarian diet, but we stopped eating bread and pasta—and Christian immediately began to feel better. He regained weight. Later exams revealed that he is, in fact, gluten-intolerant. We’ve been cooking and baking gluten-free ever since.

Nowadays, gluten-free products are easy to find near large cities and towns, but for world cruisers, sourcing can be challenging. In Tonga, we made do with what we found. 

Now we squirrel away gluten-free products whenever we find them. When we head to new destinations, we ask friends who arrive ahead of us to report back about the local supermarkets. When Wi-Fi is available, we check Facebook groups for advice on local shopping, or browse supermarket websites. If we’re shopping in person, with a language barrier, we bring screenshot images of products to show the clerks. 

Still, finding good bread was proving impossible, so I ­decided to make my own. Online recipes contained ingredients that we could never hope to find, so I experimented with rice flour and cornstarch. The bread turned out flat and rock-hard. Then, in a supermarket in the Cook Islands, I discovered a game-changer: buckwheat flour. It rose well, and testing it out eventually resulted in this recipe for rustic stovetop bread with no kneading required.

Thanks to the internet, I also discovered that names for the same ingredient often vary by region. What I know as linseed is called flaxseed in many places. Tapioca flour is also sold as tapioca starch, and in some places is known as cassava, manioc or yuca. (And yuca, an edible root from which that flour is made, is frequently misspelled yucca, which is a spiky, ­warm-climate shrub.)

The big lesson, of course, is that provisioning before any long passage takes planning, and having special-diet requirements adds another dimension. But with a dash of effort and a splash of flexibility, you can still make delicious meals, including bread, while cruising.

Pitufa’s Gluten-Free Pan Bread (yields a 10-inch round loaf) 

• 1 Tbsp. whole flaxseeds soaked
  overnight in ½ cup water in a small covered bowl
• 1¼ cup tapioca flour (tapioca starch)
• 1¼ cup buckwheat flour
• 1¼ cup gluten-free all-purpose flour
• 2-3 tsp. salt
• 1 scant Tbsp. instant dry yeast
• 1½ cups warm water (105 to 115 degrees Fahrenheit)
• 2-3 Tbsp. olive or vegetable oil, for greasing pan

Note: You’ll need a 10-inch-wide by minimum 2½-inch-deep nonstick skillet with a lid. 

Mix together all three flours and salt. Add yeast. Add 1½ cups warm water. (Do not use hot water or it will kill the yeast.) Add the gooey, soaked mixture of flaxseeds and liquid. Stir until smooth. Dough will be wet, like thick batter. 

Lightly oil the bottom and sides of a nonstick pan, and warm it slightly. Pour in bread batter, cover with lid, and let rise until dough has doubled in size (rising times vary depending on ambient temperature). Check every 15 minutes or so to ensure that it doesn’t rise more than that; dough should be cooked while still rising or it will collapse. 

Place pan on the stovetop, covered, over medium heat, and cook until the loaf is solid enough to be flipped and the edges are slightly browned (15 to 20 minutes). Remove pan from heat. 

Using a spatula, slide the loaf onto a dinner plate, cooked side down. Using oven mitts, invert the frying pan over the plate, and flip the plate and pan. Return the pan to the burner. Bake for another 10 to 20 minutes with the lid slightly open to achieve a crunchy crust. 

When done, the bread should be golden brown. An instant-read ­thermometer should show 190 to 200 degrees Fahrenheit; a skewer into the center should come out clean. The bread should sound hollow if you tap the top gently.

Cook’s Note: You can adapt this recipe to your preferences and climate. The flaxseed mix is needed as a binder, but you can add additional dried nuts, seeds or herbs of your choice. 

Prep time: Overnight soak plus 2 hours, including rising time
Difficulty: Medium
Best made: At anchor

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