MEAT

Christmas weekend in the galley featured nearly 1,000 pounds of beef, 350 pounds of duck, 200 pounds of ham, cases of lobster and scallops for bisque, shrimp for shrimp cocktail, and New York strip steaks for brunch the next day.

My contribution to the Christmas feast was trimming about 30 of the 100 or so beef tenderloins—MEAT, organizing and helping construct 800 “vegetarian Wellingtons” (prefab mushroom patty, cheese, pesto, and asparagus, wrapped like a present up in puff pastry), carving roast duck breast—MEAT, and most importantly, asking the powers that be over and over and over and over and over for tasks to do in the days leading up to the big event so all the prep could get done.

The bakery made bagels from scratch and they were amazing.  I didn’t realize how much I miss those truly good, chewy buggers.  Oh yeah, and MEAT—we cured salmon lox to go on them.

Today is actually my Christmas day off, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed holing myself up in my room, arranging a trumpet part to accompany a pretty song I’d like to sing.  But the sun is shining, so I better get outside and hike. 

Please enjoy this photo:

And this one of our activity notice board, with a crazed Frosty Boy machine chasing down penguins from his fiery lair:

Christmas Time Is Here

I’ve developed a Pavlovian response to a dingy, funky old building.  Hotel California might have the shabbiest rust-colored carpet in town, old janky doors, and the musk of countless years of sweaty people sharing bunk rooms, but it is where I go to have silly parties and fun rehearsals.  There are currently two inhabitants, one of whom is my singer/guitarist buddy, who strums loud enough and pours me whiskey until I’m unselfconsciously trilling “West Virginia, Oh My Home.”  Luckily, I balance the influx of country music in my life, returning the favor with classical vocal coachings on “Ave Maria.”  We haven’t broken any windows yet, but the other HoCal resident stopped by to make sure everything was ok…and I think he secretly wants to join us.

Christmas week is upon us, and is full of celebration, which equals drinking and music.  Sure, I’ll sing with the choir at church tonight, but then I’ll head to the Vehicle Maintenance Facility’s holiday party, where you can take a shot with the Grinch and get a picture with Santa on our version of a Mars rover.  A couple nights ago was the Waste Barn acoustic show.  The department clears out the large building where all our trash and recycling is sorted, creates fantastic scenery, and invites the non-thrasher-rock bands to perform.  This year’s theme was Whoville, and I was happy to find some of the decorations repurposed after the show.

After weeks of sun and fog, we finally got a nice snowy evening last night.  I skipped out in it to see the seals lying, languid as always, heads into the wind.  That set the mood nicely to bake cookies for my secret Santa present in a night-time kitchen eerily quiet and serene.  It was great to be in jeans and a sweatshirt, touch everything with my bare hands, and eat the dough right there at the table.  It’s a world away from opening bags of meat and rushing around at 6am.

Here’s a little Christmas present: someone(s) started printing Missed Connections, a sort of personals/way to get in touch with someone with whom you might have shared a spark.  The first edition featured some clever irony, and inspired me to continue in a similar vein.  I hope you enjoy my first submission.

You probably don’t realize how much you turn me on, waiting in line every morning, bleary-eyed, tongue-tied with sleep. I get a little thrill when you set your plate in front of me, and those few extra seconds while you struggle to remember the order that never changes give me a chance to work my penetrating stare. Do you hear the suppressed desire in my voice when I coyly ask, “What would you like?” I long for you to push your omelet aside and take me on top of the flat-top grill. If you feel the same way, Mr. Bacon-Onion-and-Cheddar, let me know you read this and are game by spicing up the order with some jalapenos.

Fun Stuff

Last day off was spent climbing Castle Rock and performing at the Coffee House—pretty ideal.  It was a balmy 30 degrees with little wind, and I hiked with two other hearty girls up the groomed, gradually sloping path.  There are little emergency shelters along the way and we stopped to read some previous visitors random thoughts in the log books.  They’re painted bright red, are pretty comfy when the sun shines in the windows, and have sleeping bags and snacks should you actually need to hole up there for a while.

The climb up only takes about ten minutes, but it looks really dramatic.  From the top you can see smoking Mt. Erebus, an active but relaxed volcano (don’t worry, we’re not going to get blown up), the open water past the edge of the ice shelf, edges of calving glacier mouths, and on that day a cool patchwork pattern of sunlight through the thin clouds.

I’ve been lucky enough to rehearse and play with some great guys here—acoustic guitar, fiddle, and sax.  They indulged me by playing along to the jazz standard “Autumn Leaves,” and I overcame my horror and actually enjoy singing backup for a few country songs (“When the Stars Come Out” and “Fire Away” by Chris Stapleton; possibly a “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” and “West Virginia, My Home”).  We’re planning some fun things for the coming week of Christmas parties and the rest of the season, including possibly the best country song ever written, “Piss Up a Rope.”  Check it out if you don’t know it…

My week continued pretty good from there: a solid night of rehearsal, a moderately riotous galley Christmas party, a showing of one of my favorite movies (“True Stories” with David Byrne and The Talking Heads), and a classy bottle-of-wine-and-philosophy-discussion evening.  Plus, dramatic banks of fog rolling into town:

As far as work, I have three words for this week in food: Hot Dog Buffet.  I’m looking forward to making food for Christmas.

Wherein the Author Acquaints the Reader with Fun Names of Stuff

12 Yellow STD Blankets

You saw it here first, being saved for that special someone:

Oscar the Grouch, Rico Suave, Sassy B, and Big Ben:

Que Sera Sera

In related news, I thought it would be fun to estimate the remaining amounts of various foodstuffs “on the continent,” which is the way we put it when we want to be extra dramatic.  Such as, “There’s only 20 gallons of ketchup left of the continent.”*

*This is an exaggeration, but there is an unspecified ketchup shortage.  I also discovered there is a mayonnaise shortage when I had to make (ugheeewbarf) Hidden Valley Blue Cheese Dressing, a flavor packet whose recipe indicates the addition buttermilk (or dehydrated milk powder + water + lemon juice), mayo, and blue cheese crumbles.  (Incidentally, there is *not* at all a shortage of blue cheese crumbles.)

We can’t be sure how the pantries of neighboring Russian, Chinese, Argentine, and other bases are holding out, but since we far outnumber their combined population, and I doubt they have much in the way of such things as bacon-flavored MSG bullion, a.k.a. Bacon Base, let’s round the estimates to the contents of our own coffers.

- Bacon Base: unlimited

- Vodka: NONE!!!!  EMERGENCY!!!!

- Boca Burgers: hundreds of thousands; lay off, vegetarians—see, we totally care about you

- All-Purpose Flour: virtually zero, because, gosh, it’s real hard to remember the difference between something silly like different flours, so they just pick a random one each week, like cake flour, and treat the bakers to a professional challenge to make do

- Chicken Gyro Meat: approx. one million pounds, despite our politically-motivated disappearing campaign

- “Extreme Supreme” premade guacamole in a bag: 80 pounds; dangerously low considering our bi-weekly* burrito night

*that’s twice a week, folks

- Starkist Tuna: 50 pounds; currently rationed to once a week at the deli bar as it is immediately consumed by weight lifters and the three women on base that blow-dry their hair

- “Hand-Placed”* Molded Turkey Breast: any is too much

*So…the people in the factory risk their limbs to transfer the mechanically separated meat into the hydraulic press, so it’s technically hand-crafted deli meat, and we are bluffing that it merits inclusion at a carving station?!?!

- Canned Stewed Prunes: statistically infinite; probably a good thing, though, to help us digest all the rest

Greetings from Waylon

I hope you’re thinking, “Oh boy, another installment in the 478-part series of ‘Claire in Antarctica.’”  Just when it seemed like there wasn’t much more to say on ice, rocks, random objects, or mediocre food, I’m back with an irresistible rejoinder that in retrospect might be better left unsaid.  This is really just a constructive excuse to procrastinate making my secret Santa gift.  Now let’s dive in.

At long last, I’m enjoying my Thanksgiving holiday.  I guess there was some crazy Mad-Max-themed party last night but I only saw some scruffily dressed people wandering into the bar afterward.  I caught the last few songs of McNut Punch, this season’s Metallica cover band.  But it was rather sweaty and the female bartenders had better patrons to cater to than me, so I had a tame night of it. 

Here's a nice view of the pressure ridges, which I saw again:

The previous two evenings were spent in the great outdoors, hiking a new (to me) path on the ice shelf over to the New Zealand base, and getting another look at the pressure ridges.  It’s been in the 30s and sunny, with barely any wind—sweatshirt weather.  I could actually feel the warmth of the sun on my back, and it was good.  With almost no snow in town, it was nice and Antarctica-y to be out on a glittering white plane, sun sparkling back up, and deep blue mountains butting up against the light blue sky.  At the Tatty Flag, the Kiwi bar, you can get much better wine for less money than here.  And if you sit at the piano looking at sheet music, just maybe the musician you respect and enjoy the most in town will ask if you play, and end up putting together a set with you for the Christmas show(!).

It’s a good thing I’m experienced with carrying keyboard parts down the road.  My loaner comes with a comically tattered cardboard case I reinforced by wrapping my scarf around it.  My guitarist buddy lives a couple hundred yards away with almost no neighbors, so it’s a good place to rehearse, and now I get bonus exercise. 

It was a very good week for mail—packages from mom and dad, and Matt, and emails galore.  Thank you everybody for writing and fun news and love.  And speaking of love, a thrilling addition to life here just became public: McMurdo Missed Connections.  I’ll track down my favorites and share some select solicitations soon.

Here is my new little penguin friend, Waylon.  I got him at the craft fair today.  He’s pinned on my wall now, but if he’s a good boy he’ll get to go on a Christmas tree next year.

Fit for a King

A week that starts with doomed inadequate prep followed by a 13-hour day luckily improved.  I suppose the plus side of running out of food halfway through Thanksgiving is that we don’t have to secretly recycle leftovers for the next couple weeks.  Really, the only extra food I dealt with was delicious re-cooked rib eye—left in the oven so that nearly three inches of fat rendered into crisp cracklins (sort of a cousin to extra crispy thick bacon).  This got chopped up and put in quesadillas.  If we had the wherewithal, something quite fancy could have come of it, with fresh guacamole and such.

That was for taco Tuesday.  Today’s food adventure (charade?) was seitan à la king (a.k.a. Satan, King of the Underworld, Stew).  Not sure if the roots of this dish trace back to Louis XIV, Henry VIII, or that guy from “The King’s Speech” (all big wheat gluten fans).  Don’t we all deserve protein chunks coated in luxurious béchamel (canned powdered white sauce mix), with just-picked (frozen for several years) peas, pearl onions, and carrots, a bag’s worth (1 C. minced) of garlic (my creative flair), flavored with the finest parsley and paprika?  Fit for a king, served to the madding crowd at McMurdo.

I think we’ve gone through the five-week menu cycle three times now, which is not a ton of repetition, but I suppose enough time has passed that I’m beginning to yearn for novelties.  A tiny slackening of rope from the powers that be have made possible inventive daily “action” dishes, yielding some awesome results: tonkotsu somen noodles with chasu pork (like ramen), made-to-order French dip sandwiches, niko dango (Asian glazed meatballs), and pear + bleu cheese + caramelized onion crêpes.  These items are made in much smaller batches than the rest of our food, and usually have a bit more love put into them because they’re something we’re interested in.  We take some pans of wan, gray pork chops or a few cases of oozy nearly-lost pears and are genuinely excited about transforming them.  (I’m using “we” a bit vicariously here, but I did cook noodles and flatten out a crêpe…and eat lots of crêpes.)

These tiny victories help restore pride in what we do.  Sure, it’s essential that scientists and forklift operators eat (and lots of them happily get double cheese-burgers three times a week), but it’s nice to give them something they’ll really enjoy.  Word travels fast when there’s something good, and people come up with an eager expression, looking for a little bit of contentment and satisfaction.  Sharing that feeling about the same object or experience is basically what I think community is.

Here’s me and my favorite rock: