Editor’s Note: This is the first of a weekly summer series on cooking in a tiny boat galley. Landlubbers, don’t turn the page. Chef and sailor Annie Mahle will tell us how the culinary lessons she’s learned at sea also apply when she’s on land.

Welcome to the smallest kitchen on the planet. Smaller than a 35-seat restaurant kitchen. Smaller than a food truck. Smaller than a kitchen in a small Manhattan apartment. My galley – sailor lingo for kitchen – is a 6-by-8-foot space from which I serve 30 people breakfast, lunch and dinner. Every day. And that selfsame space contains my 3-by-4-foot wood stove, too.

Anne Mahle prepares meals for 30 people at a time in the tiny galley of the Schooner J. & E. Riggin using a wood stove.

Three people can work in my galley, but that’s like saying your family of four can fit into your powder room. It’s possible, but how long before you want to kill each other?

Our Maine windjammer is the Schooner J. & E. Riggin, and my husband and I take 24 guests sailing with us on multi-day overnight trips all summer in and around Penobscot Bay. Ours is an outdoor life in the company of people we see every year at least once (returnees), combined with guests who’ve come to us for the first time, but usually not the last.

I began my cooking in these very small kitchens the day after I graduated from college. (I studied psychology at Michigan State University, which turns out to be super useful on the boat, but not when flipping pancakes.) Up until that point, I’d worked in what would later seem like behemoth kitchens with spacious walk-in refrigerators and miles of countertops. And then, I entered the world of sailing and – like the current trend of tiny houses – I went tiny kitchen.

Since then, I’ve cooked on boats for most of my professional life, with just a few educational and professional forays on shore. What I’ve learned is that the space in which a cook prepares meals to nourish people resembles home decor in at least in one important way: Sure, the outward look and feel of the space and home matters, but it’s what happens in that space that truly defines your life.

A good life led is a good life led, whether in a tree house or a mansion. So it is with kitchens – good food is good food, whether prepared in a gigantic, pricey, architecturally exquisite kitchen or a tiny galley floating on the water. In each case, the space defines what you might or might not prepare, but not the quality of the ingredients or the craft of the cook.

My cooking space is doubly different from what most people are accustomed to. Not only is it small, essentially outside and often tipping thanks to the ocean waves, but also my range is a woodstove. I don’t have electricity. Or a microwave, or a freezer or a walk-in refrigerator. And I’ve barely any storage space. By necessity, my menu is informed by what I and my woodstove and my eensy-weensy galley space can do well.

Because J. & E. Riggin has no electricity in the galley, everything is made by hand. The bread is kneaded by hand, the pesto is chopped by hand, the cream is whipped by hand – really, who needs the gym when cooking offers such a good workout?

It isn’t all limitations in my galley kitchen, though. For instance, the smoky hints of wood and charcoal lightly infuse whatever emerges from the stove; given that, I often put home-baked breads and roasted items such as Gorganzola-stuffed Tenderloin or Sea-brined Sage and Peppercorn Pork Loin on the menu. Big simmering pots of stews made from local meat or soups made with vegetables from my garden can be found regularly, too.

While these might not appeal to you landlubbers in the middle of summer, when you are out sailing – bundled up in a wool sweater, a brisk wind at your cheeks – a steaming bowl of curried lamb and lentil stew is a balm to body and soul.

I’m often asked, “Do you make most of this ahead of time?” The questioner usually seems incredulous. Even when they are watching me cook, some folks just can’t wrap their minds around the idea that all of the food we serve on the boat comes out of one little woodstove and an only slightly larger galley. But folks, “ahead of time” would have been the previous sailing trip, and then I was a little tied up serving other guests.

This column will be about cooking on a boat and will cover all of the tricks and tools of this very specific trade that I’ve learned over 25 years. But suppose you’re not on a boat, suppose the exhilaration of a swift sail on a summer day is not your thing. You’ll find that even if the backyard patio is more your speed, the basics of cooking – planning, organization, quality ingredients, attention to detail – are the same.

We’ll start with a recipe that celebrates the start of the fleeting summer fruit season. As summer progresses, we travel from rhubarb to strawberries to blueberries and then onto raspberries and blackberries, elderberries, cherries, peaches and finally – goodbye summer – cranberries. But for now, cheers to beginnings!

STRAWBERRY-PEACH-CHOCOLATE SHORTCAKE

When strawberries come into season, there isn’t anything I don’t want to do with them. Luckily, my garden has several huge strawberry patches to make my addiction possible (and affordable!). My mom used to make this biscuit as one large disc. When it was still warm, she would break it in half and slather it with salted butter before topping it with the fruit and whipped cream in layers. On the boat, I make individual biscuits and skip the butter.

Serves 6 to 8

SHORTCAKES:

1 quart strawberries, washed, hulled and sliced

1 peach, peeled and sliced thinly

3/4 cup granulated sugar

11/2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 cup Dutch process cocoa powder

1 tablespoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

3 tablespoons dark brown sugar

4 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled and cut into 1/2-inch pieces

1 cup buttermilk, more if necessary

WHIPPED CREAM:

1 cup heavy cream

3 tablespoons sugar

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Mint leaves, for garnish

Combine the strawberries, peaches and granulated sugar in a medium-sized bowl and set aside.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

To make the biscuits, sift the flour, cocoa, baking powder and salt into a large bowl. Add the brown sugar. Use a knife to cut the butter into the dry ingredients until the butter is the size of peas or smaller. Add the buttermilk, reserving a little until you know whether you need to use the entire cup. Or if the dough doesn’t quite come together, use a little more buttermilk. Mix until the ingredients are only just combined. I mix with my hands so that I can feel exactly how much moisture the dough has.

Transfer the dough to a lightly floured counter and press it out to 1-inch thick. Use a biscuit cutter or the rim of a drinking glass to cut 6 to 8 shortcakes. Place on a baking sheet and bake for 10 to 12 minutes until they are light golden.

To make the whipped cream, combine the cream, sugar and vanilla in a medium bowl and whisk until the peaks are soft and fluffy and not yet standing up straight.

To assemble, break each shortcake in half and place the bottoms on individual plates or in bowls. Divvy up the fruit to top the biscuits, then dollop on whipped cream. Cap with the shortcake tops. Tuck a mint leaf into the cream and serve.

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