The Galley

The kitchen was the warmest room on the ship. Polly came in. She perched on the counter.

The cook was named Esteban. He was small and square. He had octopuses tattooed on his arms. He cooked on this ship every day.

"There is no market out here," he said. "We buy food in Guam. Fresh food first. Then frozen. Then cans."

He showed her the freezer. It was small. Inside: pork, frozen broccoli, butter, a whole tuna.

Past the freezer were the dry boxes: rice, pasta, sacks of flour for bread.

The crew had twenty-seven people. They worked hard. Esteban's job was to feed them. But it was also to help them feel calm.

"Three meals a day. Same time every day. In any weather," he said. "When everything is uncertain, food should be certain."

Polly watched him cook. He was making rice in coconut milk. He toasted the rice first. Then he added coconut milk and water. He set a timer.

Then he watched the timer for a moment.

"What does the pilot eat at the bottom?" Polly asked.

Esteban smiled. "A sandwich. Cheese and ham. An apple. Water. Six hours each way."

The timer ticked. A pan began to warm. Fresh bread sat on the windowsill. Esteban cut a slice of mango for Polly. She ate it. He went back to the rice.

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