Go to Bread

Back: To the Bakery!  When I didn't know what to do after a stint in a fancy restaurant thirteen years ago, I strayed across the culinary divide to the world of flour and butter, where we proudly cut with dull knives directly on metal countertops because a baker's phallic symbol of prowess is a perfectly crafted baguette.  My first bakery was (and is) a nonprofit that trained immigrant women of color to be artisanal bakers, with English and computer classes to boot.  They came from Mexico, Bangladesh, Haiti, Albania, Guatemala, Pakistan, Morocco, as well as one quite memorable Englishwoman.  Colorful accents abounded as we ladies meshed our wildly different experiences and personalities.

I've been thinking about those women a lot the last couple of weeks as I again quizzically search the faces of my coworkers for clues to the garbled words that drift elusively past my ears, like a school of a thousand fish turning away at the last second, evading apprehension. Certain practices I take for granted in kitchens out me as not just foreign but almost extra-terrestrial -- or so it feels from the marked French reactions.  Actually, it's not just kitchen stuff, but cultural differences in general, which really do shock.  For example, the unlevel playing field when meeting people.  The first week I was greeted by no one, not a soul came up to tell me their name or ask mine.  I concluded that that must be normal, if disappointingly unwelcoming.  Week two, a bread guy walks up and says, "Hey, why don't you say hi in the morning?  Wave to us, come to the oven and ask how we're doing?  We don't bite."  Well sure.  Maybe if anyone ever did, I would?

The work itself is pretty basic: decorating tarts with fresh fruit, making meringue to pipe in curlicues and singe, shellacking flan with preserving glaze, breaking down endless cardboard boxes.  Little by little I progress, suppressing my Midwesterner's anxiety over perceived conflict when people yell at each other (jokingly...?) about little things, and cry out with the frequency and singsong of roosters, "Oh WHORE!" which to be fair is the equivalent of "aww, crap."  

the secret of the curl is to not think about it

our pretty vines are flowering

Miss Interpretation

It was with marked trepidation that I pedaled off to work three weeks ago.  I put on my feeble costume of white shirt/black pants/black shoes, set out my new razor-sharp knife, and promptly cut myself using the potato peeler.  My boss and two other cooks were pleasant, if reserved, and moved with the alacrity of NBA players.

In fancier kitchens, no attention to detail is great enough, no precision is left unarticulated or unanalyzed.  I stretched my powers of observation, absorbed beyond saturation complicated and lengthy discursions in French on such topics as the most "beautiful" quantity of salt crystals with which to adorn a pat of butter and how much more delectable breadcrumbs are when placed off-center atop a cold soup, and employed the submissive "oui" that means "Sir, yes sir!"  There's nothing wrong with this world, but my place is not in it.  Well over a decade ago, I promised myself I'd never again work a job necessitating tweezers to place tiny garnishes and flowers on food, nor multiple varieties of micro-herbs to convince customers to pay five bucks extra for a fistful of cold fish.

The entire economy of our island is based on summer tourism.  The population booms tenfold in July and August; every business hustles to squeeze the most from the season.  There aren't enough permanent residents to staff everything, and housing for seasonal workers is limited and pricey.  My boss just converted an art gallery into a brand new restaurant, and waited for me to get back from Alaska to start work, so I felt extra shitty about quitting.

Indeed, my boss was disappointed, nay incredulous when I gave notice.  He maintained a bizarre amnesia/denial until my last day, when he thanked me and hoped I'd be back sometime as a guest.

Thankfully I had one guiding light: François, a talented and lighthearted cook not unlike the Weasley twins, who constantly joked, was subtly clever, sang little songs, congratulated me on realizing what I didn't want my life to be, and encouraged our eating of dessert "mistakes."  

I tried to get outside and enjoy all the lovely spring flowers

Flowers: For Nature, Not Your Dinner Plate

End Notes

Our last few days in Alaska again proved its bountifulness.  We skied up a new creek, flowing open in the middle but bordered by thick shelf ice, and ascended into ever more rugged and narrow passages.  Every angle of light newly cast into relief the rocks and trees and water.  Just days after the equinox the sun seemed a dozen times brighter, warmer, and everlasting.  Along with the sun returned old coworkers, punctuated by hesitant, awed new ones.  The seasons wax and wane, and we with them.

We went south by van, which although time-consuming allows the enormity of the landscape and the change in one's circumstances space to unfold.  Passing the Arctic Circle, Finger Mountain, the Yukon River, the Enchanted Forest, the old trading post, and winding down into the foothills of Fairbanks is a sort of ritual, and each stop serves as an observance of past markers -- other springtimes with their own anticipations.

Fairbanks flaunted its grunginess (as always) but Jean-François is a man not easily discouraged.  When the bus refused to come he suggested we thumb it, for which optimism we were promptly rewarded.  Later, we repeatedly circled a metasticizing strip mall before finding the unmarked door of an actually charming wine bar.

I had been increasingly nervous about Jean-François staying through the 90th and final day of his tourist visa, given recent events.  So, we cut short our visit with his cousin in Salt Lake City, but managed to hike surrounding canyons, revel in blooming flowers and leafy trees, and thoroughly enjoy each other's company, in a mix of French and English.

Thus my re-immersion began, and continued with a week in Montreal.  Now, way back when, Jean-François and I met about the tenth day of walking the Camino.  But he already had buddies, including wonderful Fiona, a young nurse from Alsace.  She was tiny, her backpack was enormous, and her wildly mobile face was cartoonish with expression.  We were thrilled to see her again, and she and her boyfriend made us perfectly at home.  We cooked together, walked all over the city, and ate gratuitous amounts of maple syrup for a solid send-off from North America.

sugar shack with Fiona and Théo

Emma Creek, just after a section of boulders

the melting commences

a wedding invite collaged by our pals

Packing It In

The sun is back with a vengeance, the moon is full, the aurora is streaming across the sky.  The landscape is transfigured by light.  Though the snow and ice have barely begun to melt, the alders have taken on an orange sheen and the spruces are photosynthesizing a dark luxuriant green.  Broad swaths of creek, still solidly frozen beneath, are topped by slush and overflow, which inundates the trees on the banks and, overnight, forms a blue veneer somehow both spongy and brittle.

The parking lot has been plowed down to the gravel, thereby starting mud season.  The first few winter coworkers are leaving (and us next week), and summer returners arriving.  It hits just above freezing in the afternoon, and I can ski without gloves.  We're all shocked to step outside and feel the warmth of the sun, and have been obliged to prop open the kitchen door and run the window fan.  If this sounds premature, consider that from my coldest day in January at -48F, we've warmed up 80 degrees.

Along with truly superb skiing and snowshoeing, camp life is going strong with puzzles and crafts, poker, and movie nights.  Months ago, we had agreed that as our wedding will be pretty small and informal, and friends and family already know the details, actual invitations weren't really necessary.  But last week I thought it would be fun to ask everyone to collage postcards, just to send fun little momentos.  A few nights later I baked quiche and brownies and lemon bars for an (early) going away party.  After mutely clinking our paper cups of champagne, Jean-François shared a slideshow extolling the natural beauty, special sense of community, and select English words he picked up here.  I had to leave early for work and sported my faded t-shirt and bleach-stained chef pants, but he wore a blue button-down -- decidedly "spiffy," and not "kinky."

 easing onto the creaking ice at Brock Creek

Layton takes a load off after breaking trail for us

aurora too hot for my phone to handle

(water-)skiing on Minnie Creek

atop Big Sepp, a nub just south of Mt. Sukakpak

Burning sun with golden gleam

Two remarkable changes this year are the increase in our numbers, and that of the caribou.  Never before has the staff dormitory been full in winter.  And the past week we've had several parents and friends visiting, prompting all sorts of delicacies cooked, game nights organized, and sojourns excursioned.  One benefit of a bigger crew is more day-off buddies, and a greater quantity of outdoorsy people.  There's always a significant proportion of "indoor cat" coworkers -- unsurprising given the temperatures -- but this year I actually bump into people on the trails regularly.

Thanks to Jean-François's gregariousness, we've expanded our social circle north ten miles to the village of Wiseman (pop. 12).  Coldfoot guides take tourists there to watch the aurora and chat with one of the longtime residents, a hunter/trapper/biologist/jack-of-all-trades.  We also deliver their mail once a week, in the form of a social call with coffee and the latest local gossip and lynx sightings.  Jean-François seems to have won over the handful of villagers with his appreciation of the beauty of the landscape and his Spanish shortbread cookies.

We've also been making friends with caribou(!) who for the first time in a long while are basically in camp.  There's at least one group of twenty that have pranced back and forth dozens of times between the hills and creek to the southeast.  I've seen them leap across the trail as I approach, fresh snow muting my skis, and encountered them pawing up lichen on a low broad hill.  They wandered right up to the sled dogs the other night, about a hundred yards from the café.

making our way up the Nolan mining road

We stopped at iconic Mt. Sukakpak, noticed waterfalls of snow pouring down, and then an avalanche on the right

ptarmigan on the Chandalar Shelf

Wiseman also boasts a yoga geodesic dome

Hard to zoom with the phone, but look at those cute 'bous!

Fill 'er Up

Impossibly hardy little spruces giving way to tundra; ridge paths ever enticingly winding; golden slant-sun splaying around tree trunks; fresh snow falling: such circumstances delight and stoke vitality.  There's a hint of nirvana, a sense of going onward to remain there.

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We arrived a few days before the reappearance of the sun, and so are on the upswing of winter.  I've never had a problem with the cold or dark, or gray skies, but I know the uncanny feeling of being at a remove from the world as well as out of sync with seasonal markers.  Here, freezing temperatures last from September to May, not everybody has regular hours or days off, and without some significant date -- end of work=>vacation or big shake-up event -- you can hit a psychological wall.  A friend told me today he just unwittingly stalled out.

Most vehicles here are either running or plugged in.  When we go up the road to ski somewhere different or stay overnight at the company cabin, the van stays pulled off to the side with keys in, idling, so there's no fuss about it (not) starting.  (Also not a lot of car thieves around.)  This takes extra gas, whether from the tank or the generator in camp.  We all burn extra gas in winter, just staying warm, and lighting the way to springtime.

On the way to Twin Lakes

crystalline eyebrows above Wiseman

I suspect part of the reason my friend hit a wall was staying up all night drawing this poster for our party

Caloric Wonder

There's so much here to be awed by, in such different ways.  I suppose the food is just another expression of the wild and beautiful contrasts that define the Arctic, like the dramatic swings in daylight and temperature, or the massive industrial infrastructure paired with the majestic landscape.  In just the last few days the kitchen has seen:

-homemade s'mores (shmallow, chocolate, and graham all from scratch)

-eggs hard boiled for 45 minutes

-moose marrowbone and dutch oven sourdough with historic old starter

-slop pile of aging leftover meat (for dogs)

-double chocolate cake, Boston cream pie, mantecados (Spanish cookies), lemon tart, walnut blondies -- all the same *day*

-mummified cranberries and potatoes lurking on the back shelves

-"You can leave that grease on there, I'm gonna use it." -Line cook Jeremy

I like being night cook because my day is so nice -- sleep in, read, ski, chat with friends, watch beautiful sunsets.  Aside from occasional busy periods during which I forget which burger gets which cheese, the only real downside is cleaning the fryer.  Hot, dangerous, and disgusting, every third night is a little tragicomedy that involves trotting with a giant pot of boiling oil through the frigid night to a little shack, climbing a ladder while clutching said pot, pouring it into a begrimed funnel to slurp down into the Great Grease Cube, then scooping, essentially, the remaining liposuction material from the fryer.  There is no feeling quite like unwittingly planting your foot in two-inch thick semi-soft lard because the shack door is frozen shut and you've only partially successfully squeezed past the rubber berm/"skirt" of the Great Cube.

Photo by Justin of our fabulous igloo, s'mores fire at left

proud baking papa

We got to go dog sledding!

Trucker table skeleton

Trucker table featured artwork

We saw caribou at the far end of the lake