English Original
"Barely had coffee," Ed LeBlanc said, the most vocal of the four of us, quickest at friendship, at shaking hands. "We've got a whole pot almost. Have what you want." The pot was pointed out sitting on a hunk of grill across the stones of our fire, flames licking lightly at its sides. The pot appeared as if it had been at war, a number of dents scarred it, the handle had evidently been replaced, and if not adjusted against a small rock it would have fallen over for sure. Once, a half-hour on the road heading north, noting it missing, we'd gone back to get it.
When we fished the Pine River, coffee was the glue, the morning glue, the late evening glue, even though we'd often unearth our beer from a natural cooler in early evening. Coffee, camp coffee, has a ritual. It is thick, it is dark, it is potboiled over a squaw-pine fire, it is strong, it is enough to wake the demon in you, stoke last evening's cheese and pepperoni. First man up makes the fire, second man the coffee; but into that pot has to go fresh eggshells to hold the grounds down, give coffee a taste of history, a sense of place. That means at least one egg be cracked open for its shells, usually in the shadows and glimmers of false dawn. I suspect that's where "scrambled eggs" originated, from some camp like ours, settlers rushing west, lumberjacks hungry, hoboes lobbying for breakfast. So, camp coffee has made its way into poems, gatherings, memories, a time and thing not letting go, not being manhandled, not being cast aside.
"You're early enough for eggs and bacon if you need a start." Eddie added, his invitation tossed kindly into the morning air, his smile a match for morning sun, a man of welcomes. "We have hot cakes, kulbassa, home fries, if you want." We have the food of kings if you really want to know. There were nights we sat at his kitchen table at 101 Main Street, Saugus, Massachusetts planning the trip, planning each meal, planning the campsite. Some menus were founded on a case of beer, a late night, a curse or two on the ride to work when day started.
"Been there a'ready," the other man said, his weaponry also noted by us, a little more orderly in its presentation, including an old Boy Scout sash across his chest, the galaxy of flies in supreme positioning. They were old Yankees, in the face and frame the pair of them undoubtedly brothers, staunch, written into early routines, probably had been up at three o'clock to get here at this hour. They were taller than we were, no fat on their frames, wide-shouldered, big-handed, barely coming out of their reserve, but fishermen. That fact alone would win any of us over. Obviously, they'd been around, a heft of time already accrued.
中文翻译
“咖啡还没怎么喝呢，”我们四人中最健谈、最热情好客的埃德·勒布朗说。“我们几乎有一整壶。想喝多少都行。”他指了指那壶咖啡，它搁在一块架在火堆石头上方的烤架上，火苗轻轻舔舐着壶身。那壶看起来饱经风霜，布满凹痕，壶柄显然是换过的，要不是靠着一块小石头调整着，它肯定会翻倒。有一次，我们往北开了半小时，发现它不见了，还特地折回去取。
在松河钓鱼时，咖啡是纽带，是清晨的纽带，是深夜的纽带，尽管我们常在傍晚从天然的冷却处挖出啤酒。咖啡，露营咖啡，自有其仪式感。它浓稠、深黑，在松枝火上煮沸，它浓烈，足以唤醒你体内的“恶魔”，点燃昨夜奶酪和意大利辣香肠的余味。第一个起床的人生火，第二个煮咖啡；但壶里必须放入新鲜的蛋壳，以压住咖啡渣，赋予咖啡一种历史的滋味，一种地域感。这意味着至少要打一个鸡蛋取蛋壳，通常是在黎明前朦胧的微光中。我怀疑“炒蛋”就起源于此，源于像我们这样的营地，源于西进的拓荒者、饥饿的伐木工、讨要早餐的流浪汉。因此，露营咖啡已融入诗歌、聚会和记忆，成为一种难以割舍、不容粗暴对待、不会被抛弃的时光与事物。
“你要是需要垫垫肚子，现在吃鸡蛋和培根也来得及。”埃迪补充道，他的邀请亲切地抛向晨空，他的笑容与朝阳相映，他是个好客之人。“我们还有热煎饼、库尔巴萨香肠、家常炸土豆，如果你想要的话。”说真的，我们吃的可是国王般的盛宴。曾有许多夜晚，我们坐在马萨诸塞州索格斯镇主街101号他家的厨房餐桌旁，规划行程，规划每一餐，规划营地。有些菜单的灵感，源于一箱啤酒、一个深夜，或是工作日清晨通勤路上的一两句咒骂。
“已经吃过了，”另一个男人说道，我们也注意到了他的渔具，摆放得稍显整齐，包括一条横跨胸前的旧童子军绶带，以及排列得极其精妙的一大片拟饵。他们是老派新英格兰人，从面容和体格看，两人无疑是兄弟，坚定，恪守早起的习惯，很可能凌晨三点就起床才能在这个时间赶到这里。他们比我们高大，身材精瘦，肩膀宽阔，手掌宽大，虽然略显矜持，但他们是渔夫。仅凭这一点就足以赢得我们任何人的好感。显然，他们经验丰富，已经积累了大量的时光。