Meet the chefs:
Camp Cookie
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The Pot Wrassler
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The day was Thanksgiving. The holiday ritual seemed to have little to do with the river, but for its honor I put in an hour or so of food preparation and came up with fried bass filets and beans and steamed brown rice and biscuit bread and a roasted widgeon stuffed with prunes, and there seemed to be little reason to envy the fare of anyone in town. It was all good - the better for being the harvest of gun and rod - and afterward I sat under the arched live-oak limb by the fire with the pup, drinking coffee with a little whisky and honey in it, listening to the Morse dots and dashes of steam whistling out the end pores of a damp log. That gets to be one of the river's symphonic sounds, like owls and the gurgle of snag-thwarted water and the eternal cries of herons and the chug of tractors in unseen bottom fields.
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