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 

The Student Becomes the Teacher

Like a salmon returning upstream, suddenly I am the local expert, the one fluidly making headway through linguistic currents of regionalisms and code switching with a flash of my tail.  Bathed again in English, my accent spreads my A's broader than ever, and my tonal color palette is richly restored.  And there are so many inexplicable things to explain (the heater in the fridge; the one cook who avoids all eye contact and speech; the wolf hide being laundered in the washing machine; the popularity of sausage gravy and chicken strips; the Halloween skeleton now permanently seated at the trucker's table...).

Thankfully, Jean-François has swooned over Coldfoot's charms just as much as I hoped he would.  Our old warped door that caught every time it opened was an opportunity to meet the shop guys and borrow a planer.  Hours of industrial dishwashing are tempered by the indecipherable sassy flirtations of our Atlanta-belle hostess.  And breath already caught by the cold catches again at the snowy mountains illuminated by the first beseeching rays of returning sunlight.

Salon Night is new to me but an intermittent tradition here.  People read aloud, show a video or art project, and we share our responses.  Last night we had a fair bit of poetry, a brief film with Carl Sagan, and a ghost story.  There is no better day off than a long ski on fresh snow, unlimited free clam chowder, and debating the inherent limitations of signifiers while curled up on a giant bean bag in the dim glow of Christmas lights.

We scored seats on a (little) plane; here passing the Yukon.

Some solid aurora right off the bat!

We also ride in a van past Atigun Pass, to where the Brooks Range dissipates into the slope/tundra.

Some minor instances of culture shock

To close out a year of near-wall-to-wall France, here are some important lessons I've gleaned as a student of life here:

-a university degree with honors is marked "assez bien," which means "good enough"

-one browses the ornaments and local honey of a small-town Christmas market to the classic holiday melodies "Wake Me Up Before You Go-go," "Take On Me," and "Maneater"

-proposing the addition of mustard to a ham sandwich elicits disbelieving laughter 

-mimes are not automatically considered ridiculous

-flossing is not a thing

I saw a beautifully produced play about a plucky lad turned WWI pilot, who returns wounded and depressed but is joyously embraced and inspired to remake his life by his fiancé, mimed.

When they say they're going camping, they mean they rent a tiny cabin next to seventy other tiny cabins, next to a restaurant.

Termination/Germination

My student life ended somehow more anxious and less dramatic than anticipated.  Only five of us were there the last day, each person drifting away quietly as they finished writing about a famous French ecologist.  There was no little lunch party with dishes from our home countries; a few of us drank vending machine coffee in the hallway, and that was that.

After two rounds of exams it's a pleasure to wheel-barrow around a ton of horse poop, paint dozens of wooden slats for the foyer, and devote entire afternoons to making ravioli and cake and carnitas.  After so much mental concentration and the sure but slow linguistic results of studying, I'm happy to shift to more tangible tasks -- like bricking the grill and cleaning the fryer and heaving bags of trash!  And more interestingly, skiing and snowshoeing.  In just a few weeks, I'll be back in Coldfoot, sharing with Jean-François the wonders of the northern lights, a million acres of snowy moose-filled forest, and 24/7-free-all-you-can-eat bacon.

I had looked forward to titling this "Arctic Working Honeymoon," but then my residency card finally came through and we weren't in a rush to get married by January.  Maybe "Boreal Betrothal Bake-cation"?  What's in a name: the Trucker's Cafe by any other word would smell as diesel-y.

There are several horse farms nearby.  We met a nice guy who brought over truckloads of manure for the garden.

prosciutto and caramelized onion on the left, spinach and lemon ricotta on the right, with kalamata-tomato and mushroom-walnut-cream sauces

We combined visiting a friend over the weekend with the Lascaux cave museum.  I tried to tell JF how much more mystical it is in the film with Werner Herzog's narration.

Quick Study

The last regular day of class is over, all that's left is exams.  This semester went by faster than the others, despite our somewhat ornery and plodding grammar professor.  Maybe it was the perpetual visa uncertainty, or maybe it was the actual acceleration of our thoughts and words -- the buffering rate of our brains now allows for more free-flowing information, life at full speed.

My ability to do things in French now includes:

-reviewing inheritance laws with the notary 

-requesting medical co-pay reimbursements 

-understanding most of a movie without subtitles

-reliably saying numbers using their ridiculous formulas like "60 + 17" for 77, or "four score and twelve" for 92

Things that continue to stymie me:

-when someone asks where I'm from => somehow always phrased in a way I don't expect 

-the various ways to refer to "these" and "those" => object? person? masculine? feminine? singular? plural? relatively nearby or far away?  There's a different word for every possibility!

-the pettiness of bureaucracy => part of a thick dossier of documents, we filled out three separate forms all with the same information in slightly varied order, just to identify witnesses for our wedding in July 

leaving the university for the last evening

the last tiny butternut was still hanging on at the beginning of November 

Post-Hiking Hammam

One of my most wistful travel regrets is not having time to soak at the old Turkish baths in Budapest.  Just from the exterior architecture it's clear that the sublime lies within.  A few years later in Istanbul, I took my first plunge.  Kindly women mimed to get naked, led me around by the hand to various steamy rooms and hot pools, scrubbed me as though they wanted to reach bone, and likewise massaged with the strength of bodybuilders.  It was wonderful.

A hammam is not just a spa: the communal aspect of the baths, the grand slabs of marble and geometric tiling simultaneously timeless and evocative of the distant past, the sense of being cloistered from the rest of the world -- it's special.  Happily, there is such a place not far away, at the Mosquée de Paris, the oldest mosque in France.  And one of my best friends lives just down the street.

We spent the morning catching up (in hushed tones, to preserve the calm), increasingly sedated by the eucalyptus vapor wafting by, wrapped in towels with sugary mint tea, in the half-light filtered through stained glass windows, beside a little burbling fountain.  In case you're not perfectly sated after all that, you can get some baklava at the counter on the way out.

No photos inside the hammam, but the week before was spent walking in the foothills of the Luberon, north of Marseille (mostly in the rain).  This is part of a tiny village in a gorge that has been transformed into a restaurant and small hotel.

Walking through quaint villages, talking about Provençal dungeons and poetry, looking forward to changing out of wet socks.

You can almost see the Marquis de Sade's house from here!

A cozy library with left behind books where I scored a mildewed copy of Happy Potter in French

Nonsense and Insensibility: Women in French Film

I'm taking another cinema class this semester, covering the 1930s - 60s.  It's with my favorite professor, who always has a cheerful, bustling sort of energy, as though she just got off the phone joking with her best friend.  This despite the fact that the films we're discussing are -- just...perplexingly depressing.

We started with "Hotel du Nord," which, granted, is a realist depiction of life during the Depression.  The film opens with a young couple in a working class neighborhood, renting a room for the night to follow through with their suicide pact.  Luckily, the guy's a terrible shot and just grazes his fiancé, and then chickens out of killing himself.  While he spends a year(?!) in prison, she's hired at the hotel, befriends the colorful characters there, and is pursued by a grouchy pimp/murderer.  My favorite character is the pimp's girlfriend, a salty broad who talks back to police and remains immune to the rampant escapism that intoxicates the other main characters.  However, she remains attached to her abusive, cold boyfriend, even after he runs away with the delusional fiancé-now-maid.

Next is "Le Corbeau" (The Raven), now considered the first film noir, as it is saturated with mal-intent.  In a small village, anonymous letters are sent, first to a doctor and his mistress, then to an increasingly wide circle of influential community members, threatening exposure of their sins and secrets.  The town is gripped by increasingly feverish speculation, suspicion, and denunciation.  The film came out in 1943 and was suppressed for several years, as no one was in the mood to reflect on the fact that all of us do and are capable of doing dishonorable things.  Though this film devoted plenty of time to exploring various men's foibles and disgraceful acts, we are ultimately presented two -- perhaps three -- guilty, cruel women as the tormentors/shit-stirrers of the rumor-mongered doctor and village.

Shifting to an ostensibly more fun tone, though still rather upsetting, we jump ahead to the mid-50s with Brigitte Bardot's first big hit, "Et Dieu...créa la femme" (And God Created Woman).  If you're looking for an embodiment of the most stereotypically sexist, infantile, and objectified idea of womanhood, your search is over.  The "savage" and explosively unruly Juliette is a walking pair of boobs who oscillates between the attentions of a wealthy industrialist three times her age, and two unfortunately entranced brothers, the dorkier of whom she marries, the other whom she baldly continues to pursue.  Is this a reflection of unbridled post-war capitalism?  French society contaminated by the vulgarity of big expensive American cars and hedonism?  Can we substitute a sexy lady erratically dancing for any character development whatsoever?

-We're not quite done with women who have crazy romantic entanglements with awful men!  "A bout de souffle" (A Breath of Fresh Air) brings us to Godard, Truffaut, and the nouvelle vague.  The film centers on a couple who interact with all the flair and sophistication of newly acquainted twelve year olds.  Michel is a run-of-the-mill, low-grade-mobster bad boy, demanding and disparaging (while craving to impress) Patricia, a pragmatically faux-naive, second-wave-ish American.  They while away several days talking about nothing, having sex, arguing about whether she'll join him on the run, until she's so bored of him she rats him out to the police.  The End.

"I dance when I'm angry" - Bret McKenzie

La Flotte harbor low tide

some vegetables got going very late in the season, so I made a curry with the cutest little guys