#onecook

About fifteen minutes later, my day's work was finally rewarded. Sitting before me was a plate of flaky salmon, grilled to perfection, topped with a savory and aromatic sauce and accompanied with garlic rice. I took in a deep breath to inhale the aroma...and whipped out my phone.

I know, I'm a horrible person. A real camper would have appreciated the dying rays of the sun on the picturesque landscape as they basked in the culinary experience that they worked so hard to accomplish. But I used my half hour of unrestricted access to the outside internet queuing up a random internet video, staying glued to my screen until the fish had disappeared. I honestly don't even remember what I watched, but it held my attention.

According to experts, that's not atypical. One of the main symptoms of many internet psycoses is eating all meals in front of a screen, and any food feeling unfulfilling if you're not watching something with it. They say it's some kind of Pavlovian ritual the mind goes through, and I believe it. I honestly tried to enjoy the scenery while I ate a few times during that summer, but it just never felt the same. But if I was going to give my brain over to the net for just a short time every day, then it was better than...that alternative.

However it happened, I cleaned my plate and filled my stomach. After it was done, I tried to contemplate. This was probably the freshest meal I'd ever eaten, the first animal I'd caught, killed, cooked and eaten myself. And depending on your opinion of cloned beef, it might be the first real animal I've ever eaten. This fish was a symbol of technology's synthesis with nature, of cooperation across time and space, and selfless distance thinking of those who came before me, hopefully carried on to future generations. I was participating in something that may bring America back to nature, back to an appreciation of the world beyond our cityscapes and prepackaged microwave meals. It was a return to primitive humankind, but also a step forward into the posthuman.

It was also pretty tasty, though the lemon and garlic flavors didn't seem to work well for me. Three and a half stars.

I suppose at the time I could also have ruminated over what that rating meant, who I was really giving it to, and if it was a judgment of myself, the technology, the fish, nature, or everyone else that put things in motion so I could experience it. But I was tired, and it was getting late.

I washed up and retreated to my black-walled bedroom/bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed. However that night, a wild idea hit me. I pulled my little cot out of the black room and into the main cabin. I'd finally started living off the land, I thought, so why not start living in it?

I sat there for a good long while. Me, on my cot, in my bedclothes, protected from the wild, untamed expanse of nature by nothing but a transparent, dubiously unbreakable set of walls. That was all that ever separated us these past few nights, but it was different because I could see it all, and it all could, if it desired, see me.

Big Salmon Lake was reflecting the bright, pale moon, perched atop Charlotte Peak resting for the night among a dense forest of greenery. Among them was an old olive tree, a hidden patch of garlic and onions, and under the lake bed a teeming ecology of fish. It all lived there without me, and would keep on living after I left. At that moment, we were part of the same whole.

I reclined back on the cot. My view of the stars was mostly obscured by the solar panels, but I didn't mind. I reached for my phone one last time that night, dimmed the Orison battery to standby, and queued up a story. I had filled up my library with e-books in anticipation of being bored all summer, but so far I had yet to touch it. I chose one of Shakespeare's works that I had only gotten maybe halfway through back home, and set it to audio.

As I laid back down, I felt like I was going to fall right to sleep for the first time in my life. I think I woke up in the middle of the night a few hours later, but for the time being, these were the last words that lulled me to sleep.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.

Finally returning back home, I waved my I.D. over the door and it popped open, magnetically clasping shut behind me. With the light from outside starting to fade, I tapped the Orison battery to life and it bathed the room with a pleasant glow of flourescent light. With the power on, I booted up the OneCook and plugged in my phone to the charger, uploading the recipe I was about to embark on. I laid out the containers of ingredients on the countertop that dominated the south wall and brought out the salmon from storage, still smelling as fresh as when I caught it. Unsealing the three containers of lemon, garlic and tarragon, the mingling of aromas that met my nose hinted at the culinary experience I was about to enjoy, and made me even more happy that no bears were able to smell it too.

The start of the recipe would have to be filleting the fish. As easy as the online walkthrough assured me this was, I still needed a laser-guided Holly to reassure me I wasn't including any pieces that would give me food poisoning or cancer, or whatever fish can give you nowadays. After a tense minute or so, I was left with two servings of bright red salmon fillets, the second of which I sealed away for tomorrow. The guide also suggested I use whatever's left for fish stock, removing any fear I had that it would kill me. I still didn't know when I'd need it, but I'd leave that up to the OneCook.

Next came the olive oil. I'd already gotten the juicer out for the lemons (which was about the only task I had any experience with before this), but after the visceral experience before, I decided to do it hands-on. As I expected, there wasn't much of a science to it, and squeezing out the required 2 tablespoons for the fish and 2 for the sauce was more of a pleasure than a chore. I took the opportunity to squeeze about half a cup into a bottle for later, but it was less about preparedness and more about fun.

I worked the oil over the salmon and the grill grate of the OneCook, taking a bit more time to do so than I should have. It felt like I was giving the fish a post-mortem, pre-dinner massage, and if I had the clean fingers to queue up a video to distract me from that thought, I would have. Once the preparation was done and the timer was set for 5-10 minutes, I wasn't shy about just wiping the oil on myself before the next task.

The lemon, garlic and tarragon mingling in the olive oil as I stirred didn't disappoint on aroma, and felt like a perfect complement to the fish I'd just shared a moment with. True, it would've had more substance to it with mustard and mayo, but in the wild, we have to make some sacrifices.

After the wet work was done, I still had some time on the clock and decided it'd be appropriate to prepare a side dish. Gathering up the ingredients I didn't use in their containers, I waved my I.D. over a hatch on the floor, and descended the ladder to the claustrophobic 10x10 cellar.

As close to nature as I was, and as far away from society and people as I'd been this whole time, I never felt alone more during my stay than when I was in the cellar. The walls were just as airtight as those up above, but the fortified steel separating me from the dirt felt like it cut off everything else, which it was supposed to do. The containers for the various dried goods were just as artificial, thought perfectly suited to preservation. I understand why some people choose to have old fashioned wicker baskets and garlic braids in their cellars instead, since that gives it something of a less desolate atmosphere.

After depositing the fruits and veggies where they'd be safe, I popped open the lid to a huge drum of rice. I scooped out a serving, reminded of the words from the manual. “The rice and beans provided with this option will provide assured sustenance for the entire summer. While we encourage honing your survival skills, this guarantees that you will never go hungry.” As far as pure utility was concerned, I could have spent my entire summer down here, never once seeing the sun, the grass or water that wasn't properly filtered for me. I would be all alone, but I would survive.

With no clear direction where to go, or if these other three ingredients were even around, I called on Holly again. “Where can I find olive trees?” I asked, making the deductive leap that olives grew on trees, which turned out to be correct.

Glancing over the history of olive cultivation, Holly derived that they thrive anywhere with mild winters and long summers. Most species require drainage and not excessively fertile soil, so slopes above rivers would be ideal. I figured the best place (if they were anywhere) would be down south where the little rivers ran through the slopes of Charlotte Peak. I hefted my rucksack back on, picked up a sturdy stick to walk with, and made my way south.

Back on the trail, I kept myself occupied with the view of that gorgeous lake, and Charlotte Peak towering into the sky and down into the water on the horizon. I'd never considered myself much of a climber, but I considered how feasible it'd be to make a try for the top. I shook the idea out of my head, since I didn't have anything close to climbing equipment even if there was a straight trail up there. Pangs of fear about accidentally missing a step and slicing my arm open or breaking my legs made me want to focus on something else.

The people in charge assured me that if I was ever in distress or injured that help wasn't far away, and during orientation it was comforting. The few instances they had of people injuring themselves or screwing up a meal and getting food poisoning or just having a panic attack from being alone, they'd reportedly responded pretty quick. But there was always the fear, and not much could distract an online-oriented mind from it.

I broke the rule I set for myself just a short walk earlier, and pulled out my phone again as I rounded the lake. I told Holly to tell me more about olives, and how exactly you get oil from them. Probably sensing the panic in my voice (can she do that?) she gave me the full tour of the history of rendering olive oil, when she quite easily could have told me to mash them up in a press or just feed them to my OneCook. I figured when the time came that I'd do the former, just for the experience, but if I found a few more it'd be useful to store some in a bottle for longevity.

Unintentionally this got me on another tangent. “Maybe I could whip up something Italian later on this summer? I'll have the garlic and olive oil, but I guess everything else would take a lot more doing. Anything with pasta would take actual flour and dough, and tomatoes. Is it more than just tomatoes in pasta sauce, Holly? and cheese and all that. Oh wow, cheese...that would take a cow and I don't know what else. Could I even bring a cow up here, Holly? I know I couldn't slaughter it, so that's steaks out of the picture for the summer. Holly, do people even eat moose? No, what am I thinking, they're protected, that's the point. But are the geese? That's like chicken right, Holly? Holly?”

Holly had been keeping up with my queries up until now, but after that last question her screen had turned black and shut off completely. I'd forgotten one of the features they imposed on my phone: if I was in danger of going into the wiki-hole by asking too many stream-of-consciousness impulsive questions, I got locked out and had to cool down. Reluctantly, I put her back in my pocket and returned to the real world.

Unconsciously, I'd made it to one of the little creeks running out from Big Salmon Lake, and it wasn't far before the ridges of the mountains started up to the south. I steeled my legs up for bracing against slopes, but just a few paces down the creek and I spied something that might've made my trek a lot shorter: practically choking the sides of the creek were a tangle of little trees lousy with olives!

“Perfect!” I busted out a pouch and was almost on them, but a second glance at the little stunted trees filled with thorns right on the creek shore called something to my terminally digital-addled memory. Olive trees did spring up near rivers, but not right on them because they needed drainage. Wet and fertile soil was bad for them, and the pics I'd seen were of actual trees, not thorny little shrubs. I backed off of the creek, but plucked a few of the olive-looking-things anyway; Holly wasn't back online yet, but when she was I hoped she'd be proud of me.

The little valley that this creek forged through the mountain range felt oddly peaceful. The wind was calmer, and sounds seemed to echo in different ways. The sides weren't too towering to block out the sun, and the slopes were gentle enough to walk on. Mentally, I scheduled this for another nature walk, at least so I could find some more fruit-bearing trees along the waterway.

I managed to pick out the gnarly, swirling trunk of an olive tree just where the creek bent, and hiked up to it to observe the fruit. Sure enough, it was in season and olives were clustering around the leaves and bowing towards me. I plucked a few ripe green ones off, and for the hell of it crushed them in my palm, letting the slick, satisfying oil ooze out in victory.

Of course, it was at this moment my phone came back online and beeped a notification that I was near someone's diary. I unceremoniously wiped the oil on my jeans and answered it, legitimately laughing out loud as I read. This olive tree, planted ten years ago by a vacationing family, showed up on practically everyone's camping trip as a great resource they just happened upon. It started bearing fruit just around the time the program started, and according to the many photos, it's always looked this good.

Naturally, all the campers warned me not to go after the 'little olive-impersonating bastards' in thorns on the shore, as some of them had. After confirming with Holly, I discovered those were Russian olive trees, an invasive species brought here sometime in the 1920's that just never stopped growing. With that little tidbit I closed out the window, returning to my primary gathering task.

I filled up about three pouches with olives, not sure how many I would need, and muched on a few for the road. I wasn't quite sure whether to feel triumphant about doing this simple task without my phone for five minutes, but I was willing to call it a victory.

Wandering back up the gentle grassy slope with a much more placid salmon hanging on my hook, I came up to the cabin that had been my home for about a week now. Looking about the size of a ten-man tent, three sides of it were walled with durable bulletproof glass. The only shade the roof provided was from the solar panels, so the place always had lots of natural light and a gorgeous view. Aside from the black-walled bedroom in the back and the 10x10 cellar, the whole thing was plain and visible, but not as defenseless as it looked.

For one thing, only I could open the door, and the airtight containment would keep bears and moose from going after the smell of the salmon I stored in the kitchen area for later. I hadn't seen any sign of either so far, but the mandatory camping safety course made me take every precaution to make sure I didn't attract them. According to the program, all the cabins were placed strategically so that they wouldn't disrupt natural migration and habits of the protected species, and I aimed to do the same.

I parked myself in my chair and brought up the recipe again, aiming to put together a shopping list. I already had the salmon, probably enough to make at least two meals, and the stores in the cellar had salt and pepper just for luxury. I grimaced upon seeing that the sauce required more than just lemon, tarragon and garlic: ½ cup of mayonnaise, 2 tbsp Dijon mustard, and 2 tbsp olive oil.

With a few swipes I made the list two items shorter, but I figured olive oil wouldn't require a culinary degree. So now my shopping list was lemons, tarragon, garlic and olives. I scooped up my rucksack with a few wateright pouches and set off back into the wilderness.

I called up my nature walk from a few days ago on my phone and scrolled through my notes, and found the pic of the lone lemon tree in a copse just southwest on the trail. I had already pinned it to the map, so I plotted the course so Holly could direct me there.

While the GPS went onto autopilot, I did some searching on lemons. I figured I could take a few more than the recipe asked for, and store them for some day when all I do is chill out on the porch with a glass of lemonade. I was pretty sure the stores I picked included some sugar, so it wouldn't be just lemon juice and water, but it didn't feel like it would be the same without big cubes of ice clinking around in the glass.

According to the first nature site I clicked on, lemons weren't seasonal and just depended on warmth and rainfall, which was good news for me and whoever would be here next. I figured I could keep the lemons stored for a few weeks in the cellar, and maybe even try to grow my own with the seeds, but the site said 6-8 months, so it'd be better to just scatter them wherever. Maybe that's what someone did with this tree, but they couldn't have done it the first summer of the program since trees take at least-

“You have arrived.” My screen jolted back to the map, displaying a picture of the lemon tree I snapped my second day. I looked up and just to my right I noticed the genuine article, the fruit looking just a few shades more yellow than they did before. I shook my head and shoved Holly back in my pocket, ashamed that I'd spent the whole walk on my phone.

Stretching up to pluck a few lemons off a branch, I focused my attention on my real-world task, keeping my mind on the physical, tangible objects I had to work with. This was one of the techniques my psychiatrist had taught me for when I got lost in what most people call 'the wiki-hole.' I'd been diagnosed with Online Attention Disorder (OAD) and Compulsive Screen Absorption (CSA) last winter, and like most sufferers of internet media disorders, they recommended the Walden Experience.

Mostly people with illnesses around social media and FOMO come up here on doctor's orders, and it's a good way to wean you off without going cold turkey. My disorder actually seemed to work for me, since all I could really access up here was info about camping, wildlife and general survival, so I'd become a hypothetical expert by the end of the summer. It was usually a toss-up whether people would be cured when they got back home or go into social media overdrive, but at the very least I was learning something.

After I filled one of my pouches, I pulled out my survival knife and sliced one of the lemons in half. The inside looked nice and juicy, but like the site said, the only indication of ripeness is taste. I bit a good chunk of the flesh out, and the sour and tinge of sweet aroma was intoxicating. I'm by no means an expert, but that tasted fresh enough for who it's for. I boldly feasted on the rest of it, depositing the seeds and the rind at the base of the tree for future generations. One ingredient down, a few more to save for later, and I was feeling like a survivalist.

The robotic private chef that frees your cooking time “EXPLORE A WORLD OF TASTE!”

    Official site: http://onecook4.me/

العصر الذى نعيش بة الان عصر التكنولوجيا و التقدم العلمى و هذة التكنولوجيا لها ايجابيات و سلبيات, فتم الكشف مؤخرا فى معرض CES 2016 عن ماكينة طبخ اوتوماتيكية تقوم بعد تذويدها بمكونات الطبخة فى اماكنها الصحيحة الموجودة بالماكينة . بالطبخ بدلا عنك . حيت تتحكم فى درجة الحرارة و تسلق و تقلى و تشوى و تقلب الطبخة و تضيف البهارات بمهارة عالية . و انت جالس امام التلفاز او اثناء العمل . و عند انتهائها من…