20
The one and only summer I went to sleep-
away camp, I bunked with these ferocious
girls from Morris County, in New Jersey,
who wore tubes of grape-scented Lip
Smacker lip gloss on lanyards that hung
from their necks and who hogged the
bank of bathroom mirrors blow-drying
their hair every afternoon before dinner.
The one girl I did love, a freckled, husky
tomboy, packed her rucksack and ran
away right after our counselor’s fl ashlight
bed check one night, and I wept silent,
racking sobs in my lower bunk until dawn,
terrifi ed for her out in the wilderness. Or
worse, wandering onto 95 South with all
those long-haul 18-wheelers pounding the
uncongested Interstate in the dark hours.
My own sons never even let me sign
them up, howling their protest — truly,
howling — at even the introduction of thetopic. Every year when spring arrived,
the thought crossed my mind, taking
fi rmer shape as year-end report cards
arrived and then solidifying as the last
of the nicely structured school days
came into unignorable focus. I’ve rolled
out the exciting idea of sleepaway camp,
short-session sleepaway camp, ‘‘the same
sleepaway camp that your best friend is
going to,’’ as well as day camp, scienceA parents’-day feast:
Jerk chicken with
pickled bananas.Fresh Air and Jerk Chicken: A taste of summer camp,
25 years in the making.
8.4.19 Photograph by Johnny Miller Food stylist: Maggie Ruggiero. Prop stylist: Colin King.Eat By Gabrielle Hamilton