Furious Cucumber

I decided to be the change I wanted to see; I organized a party.  Inspired by my predecessor egg line instructor from last year, I knew the best way to bridge the galley gulf, the perilous gap between cooks and stewards, to unite those of us who mop: after-work team-building beverages.  And like that somewhat wise man last year, I knew there was one perfect place for this event—the Hotel California lounge.  HoCal is rather rusticated at this point, but it was one of the first for-real dorm buildings on station.  It’s on the opposite side of town from all the other dorms, and has, for the most part, a transient population, housed primarily in two large bunk rooms, or man-camps.  Unlike one of the bars or my own lounge, there is about 0% chance of running into one of my bosses.  When I arrived to commandeer the lounge, two nice middle-aged guys were watching “Frozen,” and responded enthusiastically to my interruption.

It’s pretty easy to lure people with the promise of free alcohol, but I bumped up the enticement quotient by advertising a “signature cocktail.”  This consisted of me soaking cucumber slices in a fifth of gin, then adding some lime juice, tonic, ice, and, for culinary flair, parsley.  A refreshing summer sipper that paired well with a sunny evening on the back porch deck.  I came up with alternative nametags for everyone—I had time to kill, I don’t know most people’s actual names, and I hoped to spark spirit-animal-related conversation.  Some that I remember now are:

Wet Squirrel

Bedazzled Whale

Confused Panda

Sagacious Eel

The Jolly Snail

Meeeeeeeooow

So that was fun.  Unfortunately, that night my sore throat crossed over into awful-cold territory, and I won’t get to partake in tonight’s Halloween shenanigans. 

In other news this week, I got quite close to three seals sleeping heavily.  Close enough to watch their nostrils open and close to breathe, and hear adorable motorboat-like snores every so often.  Pupping season is upon us, and I’m going to imagine some of the flipper-waving and stomach-scooting action presages baby seal-slugs to come.

Here's an ethereal picture someone else took last year of a seal underwater:

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Blurst of Times...

What's the best thing ever when you're tired?  Sleep.  What's the best thing ever when you wake up in the morning and don't have to go to work?  Breakfast-in-bedroom.  A full spread of avocados, apples, cheese, bread, yogurt, coffee, and a 'lil Bailey's is how I plan to start every "Saturday."

Once I get myself out of bed, next comes looking over my week's brief notes.  Here are some direct transcriptions:

- chx. parm. + pasta = food

- falafel from scratch (3 cases parsley)

- decade dance party - rad makeup - feeling human

Firstly, let me introduce you to one of this year's brilliant but logistically annoying concepts: 24-hour food.  There is already 24-hour pizza, deli bar, cereal, waffles, wrapped leftovers, and prepackaged food; but pretend none of those exist.  Cue the trumpets, we've got TWENTY-FOUR HOUR FOOD!  Originally, this was described as a short-order grill, pasta bar, rice, and more.  For my shift's part, we are meant to prepare and serve pasta, sauce, and a pasta-type casserole.  This is meant to be delicious, original, and change every day; this is meant to utilize leftovers; this is meant not to utilize leftovers; this is meant to be vegetarian; this is meant to be semi-vegetarian; this is meant to be sauces from scratch while using leftovers while being half vegetarian while being fresh and hot while being easy and not adding time to prep while being easy while being carefully made in small batches...get the idea?  It's really quite simple and we just sort out the details, as management expects.  Long story short, I hacked up some previously-baked pre-made breaded chicken parmesan patties with congealed cheese, added pasta, and heated it up.  Half got eaten, so at least some garbage was saved from the...garbage.

Contrastingly, I was rewarded with making some quite tasty falafel from scratch two days later.  Chickpeas were soaked, spices were toasted, and most significantly, a couple cubic yards (3 cases; 15 pounds?) of parsley were minced (no, no, not by hand, in the food processor).  I listened to J.T. croon, I ice-cream scooped an estimated 1,000 balls, and I deep-fried them.   

Saturday night was the Decade Dance Party at Gallagher's, the larger/louder of the bars.  Luckily, I had thoroughly perused the selections at the Skua (like a Goodwill, but free) and found a peach prom dress as well as a short-tight-snakeskin-print dress.  I also nabbed some wickedly pointy black heels, but come party time decided to protect my toes with red Mario Batali clogs.  My friend down the hall provided makeup, which I asked be applied to look "clown-like," and we decided the decade that most applied to my outfit would be '90s, so I had a high ponytail and those strings of bangs on either side like Alicia Silverstone.  There was a pretty good turnout, and we bounced around to disco and pop.  My makeup applicator friend wore my favorite outfit of the evening: also '90s, but the previous century.  Something possessed her to bring to this continent a for-real bonnet, and she paired it with a long patterned skirt and cardigan for that classic pioneer-ette look.

Here is a picture of gloaming.

Smorons; and, On Onions

Perhaps those of you who participate(d) in seasonal/annual activities will understand this: the sophomore experience.  You return for a second season of marching band/water polo/Lepidoptera conference convening, and there’s a mix of comfort, because you’ve been there before and know what to expect, and a tinge of disappointment, because the iconic characters that shaped your first impressions might not be there, because some of the newness and discovery inevitably can’t happen twice, and any changes seem a slap in the face to the sacred original.  (Did you make it through that long sentence?  Great.)  Hopefully, this feeling is tempered by the benefits of not being a complete nube—already having friends, knowing roughly what to expect from said activity, a modicum of confidence in your abilities.

Returning for a summer season on the Ice has been all of this, plus extra (um, sorry, hold on, I promise it gets better) disappointment.  Suffice to say lots of looking forward to something while playing a nostalgic loop in your head means reality will land on your lap with a bit of a thud.  Also suffice to say (as I’m not supposed to reflect negatively on the program), there are lots of changes in the kitchen and we are working hard (i.e.: struggling furiously) to accommodate the new sky-high expectations. 

Most earth-shatteringly so far: I only get to be on egg line one day a week.

Enough gloom.  All the cooks in the kitchen are cool and we get along and support each other, so there’s a jolly togetherness.  And when the boss “didn’t realize” my first day was supposed to be my weekly day off, and encouraged me to stay since I was already there and in my uniform, at least the same thing happened to two other people so we could all bust ass seven days in a row together. 

The most entertaining thing to me in the kitchen so far has been the return of smelling like I work at McDonald’s.  It doesn’t matter what I’m making.  Whether I just chop fresh peppers or stand over the grill, I will reek of greezy onions before the day is over.  I decided to start taking note of what time of the day I was saturated with allium scent, and reached a record yesterday at minute 8 into the day when I incautiously dumped onion powder into a container for barbeque sauce and it foomped up in a dust cloud.  The corner of my room where I put my laundry bag radiates greezy onion like rapidly increasing atomic fission, increasing exponentially as the week goes on.

Also this week in onion fun, our cases of scallions must have frozen, are consequently a bit yellow and wilted, and…disturbingly snot-filled.  I have come across this in rare instances before, but it is still quite alarming to pull off the unwanted outer layer and, instead of a crisp snap, release a resigned little gush of clear scallion phlegm.  

And I will leave you with this sexy potato sack from the veggie cooler.