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’s nothing quite as satisfying as foraging for food while cruising. Some sailors catch fresh fish off the stern. Others, like my husband, Mitchell, and I, prefer to dive in the shallows. 

Our love for cruising and life at sea began long before we found our present boat, Esprit, a Peterson 46. We’d lived and worked on many boats before this one, always dreaming of someday starting a small charter business on our own boat. Finally, we found Esprit in Panama. The boat had just completed a 15-year circumnavigation with its previous owners, a family who had meticulously maintained it. Esprit was sturdy, well-loved, and ready for the next adventure. Soon, the boat was ours.

We were starry-eyed but slightly nervous as we embarked on our maiden voyage from Panama to California, headed for our home port in San Francisco. As it happened, we transited the Panama Canal on my birthday. It was an unforgettable start to our journey, but there was no time to linger—we were on a tight delivery schedule. We had jobs to return to and a charter business to launch.

For years, Esprit was our home and our livelihood as we hosted charters along the California coast. But then, as for so many others, the pandemic changed everything. Our business came to a grinding halt, and life took an unexpected turn.

In search of warmer weather and fresh cruising grounds, we made Ventura, California, our new home base. Quickly, we fell in love with the town, its welcoming community, and the friendships we formed. Though we never intended to stay long, the years slipped by. The convenience of a stable home port, the beauty of the rugged coastline, and easy access to the beautiful Channel Islands made it amenable to linger.

Often called the “Galápagos of California,” the Channel Islands is a stunning but challenging destination. The waters surrounding the islands are teeming with life, protected by marine sanctuaries that make the region a dream for conservationists and underwater adventurers. While fishing and foraging are restricted in many areas, there are plenty of opportunities to gather fresh seafood in permitted zones. On crisp mornings, we’d set out in the dinghy to explore rocky shorelines, searching for mussels clustered in the intertidal zones. 

Foraging for mussels and diving for scallops became a favorite activity. The best part? Bringing them back to Esprit to prepare a steaming, aromatic pot of curried mussels—now our favorite way to warm up after a chilly swim. 

This dish was inspired on a brisk afternoon in early spring. We were anchored at Santa Cruz Island, and we’d had a successful mussel harvest. We were chilled, and I began to crave warm, spicy food—specifically, Thai tom yum soup. It often includes seafood as the main protein, so I thought, Why not? After being in the cold Pacific water, a flavorful, hot curry sounded like an ideal way to warm up. 

It was the perfect meal to end a perfect day, and it’s now become a galley favorite. I always have red curry paste on board for curry in a hurry.

As the months passed in California, the call of the open sea began to beckon. Deep down, we knew Esprit wasn’t meant to be a dock queen, weekend cruiser or charter yacht. It was time to sail south.

We did a monthlong cruise around Catalina Island and then departed Avalon, setting sail for Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, with our ship’s cat, Panda, and our friend Brian, a highly experienced sailor and navigator who’d sailed many miles with us aboard Esprit. It was a 41-day passage. By New Year’s Eve 2024, we’d arrived in the Sea of Cortez, ready to embrace the next phase of our journey. 

Now, as commuter cruisers, we plan to spend four to six months a year sailing in Mexico before returning to the United States for work and family time. The past seven years have been full of unexpected changes, but one thing has remained constant: our love of life at sea.

Through all our adventures, one thing we’ve learned is that the best meals are the simplest ones, made with ingredients gathered fresh from the sea. This curried mussel recipe is more than just a favorite meal. It evokes fond memories of our time in the Channel Islands, of the crisp ocean air and the joy of a warm, fragrant bowl shared with friends in a quiet anchorage.

Whether you’re full-time cruising or cruising when you can, I hope that this dish brings a bit of the sea to your table. Enjoy it with friends.

Curried Steamed Mussels (serves 2 to 4)

• 3 Tbsp. coconut or olive oil
• 1 small onion, diced
• 1 inch-long piece of fresh ginger, peeled and minced (or a pinch of dried ginger)
• 3-5 cloves garlic, crushed or minced (to taste)
• 1 Tbsp. red curry paste (or 1 tsp. curry powder)
• 2 tsp. maple syrup or cane sugar
• 1 13- to 14-ounce can full-fat coconut milk 
• ½ cup vegetable broth (or water)
• 1 large tomato, sliced into half-moons
• 1 lb. fresh mussels, cleaned and de-bearded

For serving:

• 2 cups basmati or brown rice, cooked
• cilantro and lime wedges or green onions, chopped, for garnish

This recipe is fast-paced, so it’s best to have ingredients prepped before you start cooking. In a large pot or deep sauté pan with a lid, sauté the onions in coconut or olive oil over medium heat until they start to soften. Add ginger and sauté until fragrant, 1 or 2 minutes. 

Add garlic and sauté for about 30 seconds. Mix in the curry paste or powder, and maple syrup or cane sugar. Stir in coconut milk, broth (or water), and tomato slices. Mix until the broth is a uniform color. 

Add cleaned mussels to pot. Bring broth to a low boil and cover with the lid. Steam for 5 to 6 minutes, or until the mussels open. Remove pot from heat. Discard any mussels that do not open naturally after cooking. 

To serve: Fill a measuring cup with cooked rice. Pack down with the backside of a spoon. Invert into a large soup bowl, and tap gently to release. Surround rice mound with mussels and sauce. Garnish with ­cilantro and fresh lime wedges or sliced green ­onions. Serve immediately.

Cook’s Note: If you have access to fresh ­lemongrass, add a stalk cut into 2-inch ­sections at the same time as the ginger.

Can be prepared: at anchor
Prep time: about 1 hour 
Difficulty: medium

The post Curried Mussels at Anchor: A Forager’s Favorite Cruising Galley Recipe 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.

As we cast off the lines aboard Simple Life, our Island Packet 37, to depart our home port in Pawtuxet Cove, Rhode Island, the boat seemed to heave a sigh of relief. Wholeheartedly, we agreed.

It had been a tough summer. In June, a rare tornado had touched down in our neighborhood, wreaking havoc. Our home sustained some damage, and the waitlist for repairs was long. We’d spent most of the summer waiting for ­contractors to appear.

Now, for the next two weeks, we were free to go sailing. We’d planned to putter south down Narragansett Bay for a day or two, then head out to Block Island, about 25 miles offshore. It was the perfect place to forget our cares and woes. 

Early on a Wednesday morning, we sailed out of the bay, planning to arrive at “the Block” by noon. That’s when more than 100 transient moorings in Great Salt Pond must be vacated unless a boat has prepaid for multiple days. The forecast for the next three days was favorable: light winds and mild weather. Perfect.

A few hours later, we ­motored into the harbor entrance. It soon became apparent that no boats were leaving that day; every mooring was occupied. We hailed the harbormaster, who told us that our best bet was to drop the hook and try again the ­following day. 

Dropping anchor in Great Salt Pond can be tricky. Holding is generally mediocre, and despite its large size, the harbor has few good anchoring areas. There is excessive depth in many spots. As recent long-range cruisers, we’re well-equipped with good ground tackle and sufficient scope, but many local boats are not—even though the island is known for sudden, localized squalls that inevitably send poorly anchored boats ­careening around the basin. 

Eventually we found a suitable spot in 24 feet, dropped anchor, and paid out 150 feet of all-chain rode. After a light lunch aboard, with the weather fine and the anchor holding well, we dinghied ashore for a midafternoon libation at The Oar, a famous yachties’ watering hole. From all points ashore, we had a clear view of Simple Life.

Even so, like most sailors, my husband, Joe, checks his favorite weather apps even when skies are clear and sunny. It’s a habit formed during our years of full-time liveaboard cruising. 

“Uh-oh,” he said. He’d spotted severe thunderstorm activity on radar at nearby Montauk, New York, about 25 miles west. It was moving fast. “Looks like it will bypass us here, but let’s head back to the boat just in case.”

By the time we pulled ­alongside Simple Life, a Beneteau 42 with a solo sailor aboard had anchored off our bow, a wee bit close for comfort. Minutes later, ominous, deep-blue storm clouds appeared in the west, advancing quickly and swirling over the island. 

Urgent weather warnings to all mariners blasted from the VHF radio: “Severe ­thunderstorms imminent. Seek immediate shelter.”

Wind gusts in the high 20s began building from the south. Gusts up to 50 knots were reported on the cell’s path toward Block Island. We watched anxiously as vicious squalls and ferocious lightning moved slightly north of us. Briefly, it appeared that the storm had passed. Dinghy engines all around us fired up, and a surprising number of boaters headed ashore. 

But the storm wasn’t over. Within minutes, the wind shifted 180 degrees and built back to 25-plus knots. All hell broke loose. Unattended boats dragged into others in every direction. 

Joe, on the bow, kept a constant eye on our anchor and the boat anchored close to us. It appeared to be moving slightly our way; he paid out a bit more chain and stood ready to fend off. We watched boats drag across the channel before tangling with others, bouncing off those only to hit elsewhere. BoatUS was dispatched along with the harbormaster. Numerous boats adrift were towed to emergency moorings. 

Eventually, the storm and the chaos subsided, treating us to a glorious sunset.

Our appetites suddenly returned in full force too. For dinner, I had just the thing in mind: a northern Rhode Island specialty called Dynamites. 

These oversize sandwiches are similar in concept to Sloppy Joes but are very spicy—hence the name. After the explosive storm, the food seemed particularly appropriate. Dynamites are a social experience, served at community gatherings and backyard potlucks. They’re also the ultimate homemade comfort food and perfect boat food: easy to make, filling and delicious. Once the meat sauce is cooked, it can be frozen and reheated.      

As the spicy aroma of simmering beef and spices lingered in our boat’s galley, we savored every bite of our tasty meal and raised ice-cold beers in a toast: to good ground tackle, coming through the storm without incident, and the simple joy of winding down after a stressful afternoon.

Rhode Island Dynamites

• 1½ tsp. baking soda 
• 3 Tbsp. water
• 1 tsp. salt 
• 1 tsp. black pepper 
• 2 lb. lean ground beef (preferably
  90 percent lean)
• 2 Tbsp. olive oil
• 2 large Vidalia onions, cut into 1-inch pieces 
• 2 large green peppers, cut into 1-inch pieces 
• 2 garlic cloves, minced 
• 1 28-oz. can diced tomatoes with juice 
• 1 7-oz. can tomato sauce 
• 1 Tbsp. chili powder 
• ½ tsp. cayenne pepper (to taste)
• Good-quality mayonnaise, as needed
• 6 to 8 soft torpedo rolls (see Cook’s Note)

Dissolve the baking soda and water in a large bowl. Add the uncooked ground beef, salt and pepper. Mix well with your hands, and let stand for 30 minutes. This technique is optional, but it tenderizes the meat, makes the sauce more velvety, and prevents the cooked meat from pebbling.

Heat oil in a large pot (cast iron if you have one). Add onions, peppers and garlic. Sauté until softened. Remove vegetables to a bowl. Add meat and cook, stirring often, until it’s no longer pink. 

Return vegetables to the pot. Add diced tomatoes and tomato sauce. Season with chili powder and cayenne. Stir and simmer, uncovered, on low heat for 45 minutes, or longer if desired. 

Slice a long, soft torpedo roll down the center. Generously apply good-quality ­mayonnaise. This combo might sound strange, but trust me, it’s delicious—and the mayo tempers the heat. 

Serve with potato chips or coleslaw
on the side, cold beer, and plenty of ­napkins.

Prep time: 1 hour, 30 minutes
Difficulty: Easy
Can be made: Underway or at anchor

Cook’s Note: There are varying regional names for the long, soft sandwich rolls ­generally called torpedoes, including hoagie, hero, sub, Italian and—often in southern New England—grinder. 

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

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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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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.

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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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It was a rainy day in the Philippines aboard Kate, our Newport 41. Though my husband, Steve, and I have been cruising full time in the tropical Pacific since leaving California in 2008, I still find myself occasionally craving a warm bowl of something—­particularly during rainy season, when the blahs set in. 

I knew exactly what to make. I discovered this miracle porridge when I was fresh out of college. Armed only with small-boat coastal-­sailing experience, I’d landed a job as second stewardess aboard a 164-foot sailing yacht. The boat was preparing to sail from Phuket, Thailand, to Darwin, Australia, via Singapore and Bali. I had no idea what to expect from an ocean crossing. 

Our passage to Singapore was flat and uneventful. As junior crewmember, I drew the graveyard shift: se­­condary watch keeper, 0300 to 0700. My job: Make coffee and keep the primary watch keeper company. 

The Singapore-to-Bali leg was a little more exciting. The seas kicked up a bit, and moving topsides to deliver coffee became a timing and agility test. Occasionally, I felt queasy, but no more than that. 

By the time we set sail for Darwin, I had nearly 3,000 nautical miles under my belt. I felt like I’d earned my sea legs. I would soon learn otherwise. As seas became steep and confused, our sturdy yacht pitched and rolled like a bathtub toy. Soon, it wasn’t moving around that I was concerned about; I was struggling to keep down even a sip of water. 

I’d thought I was hiding my mal de mer, butZam, our Malaysian chef, spotted my green gills. I was lurching back to my cabin to rest when he called my name. Standing by the stove looking cool and calm, he ladled something thick and white into a bowl. He held it out, and the scent of chicken broth wafted from it. 

“What is it?” I asked. (He’d had a history of serving “delicacies” such as chicken’s feet concealed in soup.) “It’s good for body,” he replied, thrusting the bowl into my hands. 

I ran my spoon through what looked like creamy rice speckled with vegetables. It had the soft consistency of porridge. Like a bowl of chicken soup made by my mom, it made me feel hugged. Spying nothing sinister in it, I lifted a spoonful to my mouth. 

It tasted oddly familiar, somehow reminding me of childhood. The delicate, plump rice with bits of peas and carrots was comforting. It was so easy to eat that I finished the whole bowl before ­retiring to my cabin to await the inevitable nausea. 

Instead, I woke several hours later, hungry for the first time in days. I returned to the galley, bowl in hand. Zam nodded knowingly and dipped his ladle once again. His never-ending pot of porridge saved me.

Later, I learned its name: congee (pronounced KON-jee). It’s a traditional comfort food throughout Asia. I ate it for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the remainder of the passage. 

I never did ask for Zam’s recipe, but I’ve used the indelible memory of that first bowl to re-create my own version. This dish has endless variations and names. “Cheat’s Congee” uses leftover or already cooked rice. The vegetables I add depend on what I have on hand, although the simple combination of carrots and peas is still my favorite. 

The next time you’re under the weather, or simply in the mood for comfort, this quick and simple porridge will make you feel better in no time. It’s a miracle in a bowl.

Cheat’s Congee (serves 4)

• 1½ cups high-starch white rice*
• 4¼ cups chicken or vegetable stock 
• 1-inch piece of ginger (or to taste), peeled and grated
• ½ cup carrot, diced 
• ¼ cup frozen green peas or frozen green beans, chopped

*Carolina or jasmine; do not use basmati 

Toppings (optional):

• 2 cups cooked chicken, sliced
• 1-2 green onions, chopped finely or curled

Cook ¾ cup rice according to package directions and let cool thoroughly, or use leftover rice. Add 1½ cups of the cooked rice, 2 cups of the stock, and grated ginger to a medium pot. Stir to combine. Bring to a boil over medium heat, breaking up any rice clumps. Boil uncovered for 5 minutes. 

Add remaining stock and diced carrots. Bring back to a steady simmer. Leave pot uncovered. Cook for 15 minutes. 

Add frozen vegetables. Bring to an active simmer; cook until the rice absorbs most of the stock and starts to break down slightly and veggies are cooked, 15 to 20 minutes more. Check and stir every now and then to prevent rice sticking to the bottom. 

The congee is ready when it turns thick and creamy, like a porridge with a smooth texture. If the mixture is too soupy, simmer longer; if it’s too dry, stir in ¼ cup additional hot stock or water. 

Ladle into bowls, add optional toppings, and garnish with sliced or curled green onions. Serve warm.

Prep time: 45 minutes to 1 hour
Difficulty: easy
Can be made: Underway or at anchor

Cook’s Notes: Use whatever veggies you like. Alternative toppings: cooked pork, shrimp or fish. If desired, drizzle with soy sauce, sesame oil or ­sriracha. To curl green onions: Slice green tops into 1/8-inch-wide by 3-inch-long matchsticks. Soak for 10 to 15 minutes in a small bowl of ice water; drain briefly on a kitchen towel.

Do you have a favorite boat recipe? Send it to us for possible inclusion in Sailor & Galley. Tell us why it’s a favorite, and add a short description of your boat and where you cruise. Send it, along with high-resolution digital photos of you aboard your boat, to sailorandgalley@cruisingworld.com.

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