My Dad wasn't much of a cook, but he also wasn't a fussy eater, as long as it was basic simple fare. No hot anything, and onions upset his stomach.
I still remember some of his culinary attempts when I was 6 and my Mom was in the hospital having my sister. He floured up some venison chops and over cooked the heck out of them to get that nice leathery texture. Then in a fit of inspiration poured some pickle juice in the pan to braise them. Yup, Dad in the kitchen was a treat. Now stand him in front of a Coleman camp stove by a bridge over a little trout stream, or on a wide spot on a logging road grouse hunting and he made some memorable meals. He'd take a can of Argentine corned beef and throw it in a frying pan and dump in a can of Van Camps beans. Mash it all together and heat until the steam was rolling off the pan. Couple of slices or bread and butter ad a bottle of Orange Crush and man o' man, what a treat. Being cold and hungry may have added to the memory's appeal. I do have a can of that Argentine corned beef in the cupboard and a reenactment is imminent.
I also remember the day we were just about hypothermic on an early May trout trip. Some little brookie crick up by Argonne. Low 50's, misty rain, and it was lunch time back at the car. Dad would have loved a pick up truck with any kind of a cap, and a tail gate would have been a work table, but we could only afford one car and I recall this was a buckskin and white 55 Fairlane 4 dr. with a 312. It woulda been about 1963. The little gravel road we were on is that sandy granite gravel they have "Up North", rather than the heavier, coarser dolomite or lime stone gravel down here. You could be there for hours and only see another car or two. Usually the occupants would slowly go by with a scowl on their faces because you were in "their spot."
So back to the hypothermic day. With our teeth just about chattering as we got back to the car about noon. Remember those cheap green hip boots that developed leaks and cracks in only one season. I think they were made in Korea. So cold and hungry, Dad fires up the Coleman and pulls out a stick of Cher-Mak kielbasa. Cher-Mak, ( pronounce sure make), had an ad back then. Cher-Mak sure makes the difference. I wish I could find that sausage today. So while the sausage was simmering another small pot got a can of Van Camps beans. Bread butter and some ketchup made up the rest of the feast. After the sausage heated through, Dad would let the water boil away and brown the sausage a bit.
Just as we started whittlin' it up, two bedraggled looking trout fishermen emerged from the crick on the upstream side of the bridge. They didn't have a vehicle parked there so maybe they had gotten dropped off earlier. These two forlorn looking desperadoes looked at our lunch like a couple of starving dogs, turned and trudged off down the road. Never even asked how fishin' was or nuthin. I can still taste that delicious meal.