SkilletAtSunrise

I'm Rosalind, though at camp I answer to Skillet. I'm sixty-four, I live in Houston, and I run a small catering business out of a commercial kitchen I rent by the hour. Three burns so far, each one spent mostly behind a two-burner stove feeding sixty people breakfast tacos at dawn, which is my idea of a perfect morning. My husband of thirty-one years does not camp; he holds down the house and the dog, and we have an understanding I won't bore you with. I also run a Thursday-night tabletop game, sing karaoke badly on Saturdays, and smoke on the porch, which I know, I know.

Camp kitchen people who understand that food safety is a form of radical self-reliance. Anyone at Firefly or Playa del Fuego who wants to argue about gumbo. New friends, and I'm open to more than that with the right person.

Cooking for crowds, cast iron, watching fire spinners (watching, not doing), tabletop role-playing games, karaoke, art cars at night, workshops on almost anything

Zydeco, old Tejano, nineties R&B for karaoke, and the deep house at 3 a.m. that I pretend not to like.

Big Night. Babette's Feast. Chef. Any film where someone cooks for people they love.

My grandmother, who fed half of Port Arthur out of one kitchen. Every dishwasher at every camp.