Year of the Penguin

With just one well-timed nap, I switched back to day shift.  Turns out it's a lot easier to enjoy a 'lil wine and cheese in good company and go to bed at a reasonable hour than stay up for 36 hours straight watching bad vampire movies interspersed with planking and squats (yes, that really is what we did going onto nights).  And that four-day weekend was capped by Ice Stock, our live music extravaganza plus chili cook-off plus New Year celebration.  I was a bit bummed about not having put together a band this year, but I did technically perform:

Is this not the bestest band?

Everyone in Shuttles was assigned a special task at the beginning of the season, such as organizing damage templates, compiling taxi run spreadsheets, serving as point person for radios.  My task was the holiday party, which to me equates to FOOD FOOD FOOD.  There is a building here that is, more or less, a house -- with a kitchen -- and is used for VIPs as well as our own parties.  John Kerry and Anthony Bourdain slept there (not at the same time).  For our events, you fill out a bunch of forms, and if you're lucky maybe the kitchen relinquishes some year-old potato chips and you bake some cookies to accompany your poker game or what have you.  I, however, plotted a more ambitious campaign.  Over the last six weeks, I've raided the main galley storage, squirreling away forbidden resources such as butter and heavy cream, a pork loin here, an orange there, several pounds of chocolate.  A network of confederates saw to my safety as, like a sloppy ninja, I flitted about secreting tasty treasures into my bag.  Finally, the day came.  My boss kindly scheduled me to cook during work, and so we ate like normal humans for one glorious meal.  The meatballs were not spherical, because I rolled them by hand.  The salad was graced by supremed orange chunks and a vinaigrette with fresh lemon juice.  The creamed spinach luxuriated in pounds of gruyere.  And the brownies, dear me...there are no words, if I do say so myself.

Yes, they trademarked this motto for their for-institutional-use-only meat.

As if that weren't enough fun for one evening, the same night was Mustache Roulette, an annual charity fundraiser wherein the scruffier men on station allow their facial hair to be shaved in all manner of ridiculous patterns.  One man who couldn't bare to part with his seven-year bushy accomplishment consented to having another person's impressive, just-chopped specimen glued onto his, to the joy of the crowd.

And yesterday was super nice out, so I went on a walk and saw fluffy baby skua chicks, a ton of seals, and two penguins.  You're really kicking ass, Antarctica.