Everybody Has a Story: Summer on archaeological dig tried young cook’s soul

When I was hired to cook on an archaeological dig after my freshman year in college, I left with romantic dreams of wearing a safari jacket while cooking exotic meals for adoring crew members who rhapsodized about my skills. I had not yet realized that it would become the summer to try a cook’s soul.

The crew consisted of a lab technician I privately thought of as “Momma Hen,” three archaeologists, a surveyor, and 24 crew members. It also included one, count them, one cook!

I soon discovered that cooking conditions were primitive, consisting of a tent like those used on “M.A.S.H.” I had a standard-sized gas stove and gas refrigerator, but no electricity for mixers or other luxuries. An old wooden table doubled as a cutting board, prep area and, with the addition of two metal tubs, a dishwasher. The wastewater, when dumped on the floor, cut down the dust and functioned as a mop. Water for cooking and cleaning was obtained from the nearby creek that also served as our bathtub, spa, hair salon, laundromat and occasional cow pasture.

Momma Hen was my boss, in charge of cataloguing artifacts, unofficial monitor of the camp, mother of one of the archaeologists and one mean female force! When I met her, she firmly told me that she had worked with many people, but never had one with whom she could get along. Momma Hen planned all the meals, but did not execute them. I did. This was my main challenge for the summer.

She was extremely picky, demanding and a perfectionist. Hers was the only way, and she was never shy about expressing her opinion. No matter what I did, it never seemed to meet her demands. I was expected to make bread, desserts and full meals to her specifications. She made no attempt at cooperation. I just had to “get it done.” She seemed to forget that I was a trained cook who had worked on a ranch, cooking for 30 people or more for the two previous summers.

To give her credit, she wasn’t just picky but gutsy too. One night everyone went out to a nearby cafe while she remained in camp. Two carloads of hooligans, who had been causing problems with the ranchers and farmers in the area, came into camp to see what they could find. They found a very angry grandma with a fully loaded .45 pistol in her hand. They quickly fled as she fired. She bragged to the sheriff that she knew she had hit some tires, and gas seemed to be leaking from the tank in one of the cars. The hooligans never returned.

I learned to organize my chores while cooking on the ranch, so by 2 p.m., I had made the dinner, desserts, bread, and cleaned up. Since I had a break in the afternoon and was interested in what was being excavated, I asked Momma Hen if I could help in the lab tent. She agreed, and I helped label and catalog specimens. We began to enjoy each other’s company, as we were the only ones in camp during the day, and I pulled my load. She also started inviting me to join her on the hourlong trip to and from the nearest town for the fresh meat and salad ingredients we needed.

The summer dragged on, and with Momma Hen’s nagging, rough cooking conditions, sexual harassment from some of the not-so-fine gentlemen, and absolutely no break, the romance of the situation was shattered. Gone were the smart safari-jacket dreams. There were many days I was tempted to pack my bag, catch a “dirty dog” Greyhound and vamoose. But I needed the money.

The summer ended with Momma Hen telling me that I was the first person with whom she’d been able to work. What I learned about interpersonal relationships that summer was probably as valuable as the college credit most of the crew members earned. I was offered the cooking job at the dig for the following year, but I chose to work in an onion-packing shed and corn cannery. Indoor plumbing, running water, beds and no Momma Hen! Who could ask for more?

Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call “Everybody Has an Editor” Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.