All About Lichen

-And check out that moss, too.  I first became fascinated by lichen when my group (rock on, Aud and Steph!) took on the entire biological history of the Cretaceous Period in eighth grade science.  That's the 80 million or so years that followed the Jurassic, and whose end marked the mass extinction not just of dinosaurs but all kinds of life.  Flowering plants, ginkgos, mammals, and marsupials all ramped up, and true grasses populated wherever there was open land.  I had previously found these pseudo-plant-fungi* beings pretty, but my appreciation swelled as I learned about their mastery of the entire world.

*Lichen is a composite organism comprised of symbiotic algae (or cyanobacteria) and fungal filaments.  Lichens grow pretty much anywhere, on anything (inside rocks; blows around in the air), and are some of the longest-living beings on the planet.  They slowly pulverize rocks into fertile soil.

Now, this description is so nicely worded, I will copy it from Wikipedia: "Lichens may have tiny, leafless branches (fruticose), flat leaf-like structures (foliose), flakes that lie on the surface like peeling paint (crustose), or other growth forms."  Just reading the word "crustose" would throw me into a ten-minute giggle in Mr. Chapple's classroom.  

Without further ado, check this shit out:

Also, continuing my adorable mushroom photo trend, I did not compose the elements of this picture -- nature just put them there this charmingly:

Shaka Brah

Ok, this picture is just clickbait (haha! it worked); sure, ziplining was pretty fun, but I am smiling in surprise at winning my "race" against the guide, who assured me she was not just letting me win.

At any rate, as you can see, I went ziplining (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pFIOTEyMT18).  It was kinda rainy, fairly cold, and the helicopter-ride-plus-land-on-a-glacier I thought I had scored that morning was sadly cancelled due to poor visibility.  So, after sitting in the coffee shop for a couple hours wondering what to make of my day off, two friendly coworkers and I decided, what the hell, let's zipline.*

*for free


Yesterday I hiked a semi-arduous path up 1,000 feet in the blustery rain and, after first sweating so much salt stung my eyes, I came home chilled to the bone.  The view was rather foggy, but I happily spotted all kinds of mushrooms, including many rather large specimens.  Like, eight inches across, some concave and filled with nearly a cup of water and forest bits.

Let's see...I'm going to try to make this installment's juicy kitchen tidbit a positive, life-affirming one.  Do you like butter?  Do you like eggs?  Do you wish you could eat like half a stick of butter on top of your eggs?  Make some delicious hollandaise sauce -- it's easy!  Over medium heat, whisk a few egg yolks, a pinch of salt, and a tiny blob of mustard until the mixture feels hot to the touch but the yolks don't scramble into chunks (we're shooting for 110 degrees here).  It will get frothy and thicken.  Remove from heat.  Melt a cup or so of butter, so it's a similar temperature (not scalding, not just room temp).  Now -- SLOWLY is the key -- add a little melted butter to the stuff, whisking constantly and incorporating the oil so it fully emulsifies before adding more butter.  Et voila: magic sauce that is way more delicious than melted butter or warm egg yolk alone, transformed alchemically into orangey gold.  When you make this, think of me eating a fucked up order of eggs Benedict, standing over the trash, sauce dripping off my hands and smeared on my cheek, hoping neither of my bosses will not turn the corner in the next 45 seconds.

Ever Northward

Apparently someone named Claire Veligcan flew over the Arctic Circle:

It was really sweet of them to make out a certificate, freeloader that I was.  And the nice shuttle driver drove me the extra 15 miles home so I wouldn't have to hitchhike at midnight with dubious truckers.

Speaking of truckers, I didn't realize until I arrived at Coldfoot Camp that it is a prominent feature of Ice Road Truckers.  It's one of a handful of places to refuel and get a bite to eat on the highway alongside the oil pipeline (Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay -- 500 miles).  The vibe was surprisingly similar to McMurdo -- lots of heavy machinery, trucks roaring down dirt roads, cafeteria-style buffet, aging utilitarian buildings, and a collection of odd, delightful people that don't want to be anywhere else.  I had to turn around after two hours and fly back as there was no guarantee I'd snag a spot the following day, but I'm determined to return.  The flight itself is fascinating, traversing endless miles of shallow permafrost lakes that mingle with thinning boreal forest before you reach the Brooks Range.  We passed a wind farm as well as a government anti-aircraft microwave test facility (our pilot calmly pointed out the dishes pointed away from us).  And it just so happens to be the time of year fields of purple flowers bloom up north, coloring the hillsides.

It was a very clear night, and Denali was visible most of the way back, pink in the lingering sunset, over a hundred miles away, catapulting above the horizon.  (It looked a lot more awesome with my eyes than this camera-phone-shot-through-the-window.)

  


I was all set to lay off the cafe patrons this week, but then someone ordered deconstructed halibut tacos with substitutes for wheat and dairy allergies (which = four bites of fish + cabbage pile + limp corn tortilla).  Would it be too scary to have us place your fish bites and cabbage pile on the tortilla for you?  You want to do that step yourself, or do you just like using extra dishes?  Thankfully, I had handed over the reins momentarily to another cook, took a moment to close my eyes and shake my head, and continued slicing onions while she dealt with this inanity/insanity.*

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*You could stop reading now, or you could proceed with caution and take in this footnote about the purpose of a restaurant.  I suppose I'm in the minority here, but I have always operated under the assumption that businesses, while providing courteous and thorough customer service, must have some sort of limit to what they do.  For instance, at the shoe store are a bunch of items with prices.  Do you say, "Gosh, I'm in the mood for suspenders, could you guys whip me up a pair?  Or perhaps you could dye these shoes for me, as I'd prefer them a different color."  I could see how an optimist/narcissist might be tempted to ask...but in fact, no, your typical shoe store does not have a secret cache of somewhat-related accessories, nor do they manufacture products at a moment's notice.  Perhaps what you're looking for is a cobbler, who, for several hundred dollars, would painstakingly construct your most detailed footwear desires.  And those of you who would like something not on the menu -- the list of stuff we just spent at least a day prepping and cooking and heating so you could breeze in and eat meatloaf without waiting three hours -- what you're looking for is a private chef.  They would be thrilled to stop everything and make a single serving of mac and cheese for your kid for the market rate of $50-100/hour.

Regatta!

Originally, the plan was to run in several heats, have an official timer with stopwatch at the finish line, and other such formalities that would qualify the event as a true regatta.  Truly, though, our homemade boat race down the creek could not have been more...legit.  We crowded precariously at the creekside, heaved our vessels into the roiling rapids, watched in wonder as some stayed upright, and ran alongside to keep up with the bobbing survivors as they were caught midstream not by the pathetically stretched net but by the brave, cold hand of a 19-year-old in waders.

My boat, Rower Not a Shower, unfortunately got caught on a shoal and had to be retrieved after the race.  I think I'll release it into the big river before I leave for the season, perhaps with a message inside so when a Japanese fisherman finds it three years from now he can report back on Rower's seaworthiness.

You might notice several ornamental bandaids bedecking (ha) my boat -- they suggested themselves when I took a tentative break from applying them to my slightly mutilated thumb.  There is a blood-thirsty new serrated knife at work which claimed a chunk of one of the dishwasher's index fingers; apparently that incident only further whetted its appetite for flesh, and it surprised me in a weak moment, indecisively cutting bread crusts for croutons.  The regatta was quite a fun change from being sick the past week.  I need to get reacquainted with the splendor of the outdoors, and pause the weird, confused dreams that come from dozing off while listening to endless hours of NPR podcasts.

-I'd like to conduct an informal poll/public service announcement: have you heard of baked Alaska?  I first came across it in a Clue series chapbook, as something wealthy people with a tendency toward murder enjoy at their social gatherings.  It is ice cream on a base of cake, topped/encased by meringue.  Traditionally, it gets popped in the oven briefly to brown the meringue, but you can also pour some alcohol over it and torch it.  I'm just curious how widely known a dessert this is, as I expected to see it in every restaurant up here (how could you resist baked Alaska in Alaska?), but it seems it's rare and not well known even in its eponymous land.