2020 Baking Highlights

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My friend David made fruitcake with so much candied fruit and booze that it is still mostly wet after three hours of baking.  It is delicious.  I'm trying to offset it by consuming actual pounds of kale, but I know it doesn't exactly work that way.

***

January: lemon bars -- Hut 10 kitchen, McMurdo, Antarctica.  Aside from the first lettuce anyone had eaten in over a month, the lemon bars were the crowning glory of the Shuttles holiday party.  

February: chocolate chip cookies -- also Hut 10.  I disappeared for a while on a slow day of work to mix dough with a friend, and got to deliver a few samples to my new boyfriend.

March: croissants -- The Swedish Bakery, Nelson, NZ.  I didn't bake these, but I sure are the shit out of them.  

April: scones -- 273 Bealey Ave., Christchurch, NZ. a.k.a. my international shelter-in-place pad, temporary quarantine "flat" while abroad.  The buttermilk over there is incredibly thick.  And my clandestine meeting with a friend all the sweeter for a shared snack.

May: blondies -- Kelly's cousin's house, Montrose, CO.  I loved the gooey caramelization from the Betty Crocker recipe, and they went down pretty well with Kelly's friends.

June: biscuits -- tiny trailer oven, somewhere in western CO.  I baked off my frozen rectangles in a few locations, and they came out light and crisp and fueled high-altitude hikes.

July: potatoes in foil -- the campfire, Ironton(?), CO.  I guess technically they steamed, and perhaps were cooked by all three forms of heat (convection, conduction, and radiation).  Whatever the science, so delicious with ketchup.

August: fish -- mom and dad's house, Traverse City, MI.  Mom doesn't like the house to smell fishy, so I coated it with mustard and walnuts and shut it in the oven.

September: decadent pizza -- Pixley Pioneer homestead, Kalamazoo, MI.  There were multiple cheeses, olives, pepperoni, and we all chowed down.

October: whole chicken -- Katie and Ken's house, also Traverse City.  Beautiful juicy bird, beautiful jewel-like root veggies, beautiful picturesque dock on the lake, beautiful goofball friendship.

November: potato rolls -- Trucker's Cafe kitchen, Coldfoot, AK.  We make our own hamburger buns, and they are just really damn good, especially right out of the oven, with three pats of butter.

December: adolescent redemption -- also Coldfoot.  BUCHE!  I made a pretty great Yule log cake for staff dessert.  The secret?  Chocolate on chocolate on chocolate, with a scattering of crushed Oreo.

So it's been a good year of baking, despite the obstacles and shifting sands.  And hey, we had homemade lobster ravioli for Christmas, and the sun is coming back, and there's a new season of "Big Mouth," and so many more things to pop in the oven and transform into delicious goodness. 

dusky cafe

Regarded-vous les champignons mignons!

Adventageous

Presents started coming in almost two weeks ago, and of course I didn't wait to open them.  Chocolate, cheese, books, and cards to fix on the wall -- all very delightful.  The skies also delivered, with some big aurora on the solstice, as well as bright half-moon light and long-trailing meteors.  Solstice Silent Dance Party successfully traveled from the Antarctic to the Arctic.

I faced up to a self-imposed challenge tonight and tempered chocolate for the dipping of truffles and other items.  It didn't really go right, but at least there are now deliciously enrobed sweets.  A group of us also decorated sugar cookies, some less traditionally than others.  We have an army of pride-rainbow snowmen/persons and my raisin-bedazzled candy canes mixed in with wreaths and stockings.

About every third day, one of us night cooks cleans the deep fryer.  This is one of my more technical tasks, requiring screwing on a drain pipe, opening and closing a valve, floating creepy gunk on water, and cleaning around the heating element.  (Note: most of my job is moving chicken fingers from a big freezer to a little freezer to the fryer to a plate.)  The old oil gets dumped in a big plastic cube outside and, evidently, the maintenance guys burn it for some sort of fuel.  I bring all this up because, as it's difficult to pour the oil without spilling, we have attracted and -- it feels wrong to use this word in such a context -- nourished a large flock of ravens.*  I've counted as many as twenty shuffling around, cawing in human-like voices, pecking at the grease-laden snow surrounding the waste bin.

*whoa...an "unkindness," or "conspiracy," or "treachery" of ravens

Uhhhh, so, with that, merry Christmas!  Like the ravens, may we all feast on fat things, and look forward to the new that is coming.

our giant cafe tree

coming back from a walk about 3pm

Lords of the Fryer Oil

Mooses and Wolveses and Hares, So Shy

The Coldfoot Ski Team, as we jokingly refer to ourselves, drove up the road to Marion Creek the other day.  Dan generously plowed a path through the untouched snow with his wide, skins-on backcountry skis for me and Abby to follow.  We wound up the valley, which afforded broad, open vistas.  It was clear and the blue dusk hung on for hours as we glided over and around sugar-snow mounds and hillsides in the sharp -25F afternoon.

We also took advantage of the moonlight last week to night ski without headlamps.  You could see individual dark trees etched on the sides of the mountains, race your shadow cast on the snow beside you, and scan the distance for the makers of myriad animal tracks crisscrossing our trail and disappearing again into the woods.

A group of us managed to squeeze sixteen feet of spruce into the cafe and decorate it as our Christmas tree.  It is festooned with intricately cut paper snowflakes.  The thirsty fellow drinks a few gallons of water a day, and we hope he can hang on to his needles through the end of December.

I missed Antarctica and re-watched Frozen Planet for the tenth time.  But then I went to the kitchen and cut up a bunch of fresh vegetables, got a bowl of homemade caribou curry, and admired my friend's marinating ahi tuna.  Being able to cook and eat a delicious variety of foods that were not frozen for eight years and/or graded "For Institutional Use Only" is pretty nice.  I was even encouraged to request fancy cheese on our weekly food order.  Oh, and Will -- we grew our own alfalfa sprouts, openly, without breaking an international treaty.

fresh powder

whole lotta pipe

I tried but it was basically too cold for pictures at Marion Creek.

Glitter & Glow

The moon shone so bright last night the snow sparkled. In places, the frost on branches was indistinguishable from stars in the collapsed depth of field.  The aurora also streamed and gaseously spiraled across the sky, gilt edges shimmering.

I received a much-anticipated box in the mail containing a handsomely patterned quilt from Carissa. The colors brighten my room and disposition.

Both the radiant heat from the kitchen grills and the frosty nip of the outside air redden my cheeks.  I keep my furnace stoked with vegetables and cookies.

Sunlight is getting scarce but still lingers on the mountaintops.  Another sort of light somehow translates through the satellites that connect my phone with Antarctica each week: eyes shining on a small screen.

And sometimes the sudden illumination of that screen delivers the next bit of dialogue in an ever-evolving work.  It's surprising how much that screen lights up.

lights above the heavy machinery graveyard

attempting nighttime photo shoot

soooo much sunset

Good Reads at the Lie-berry

There is a fantastic collection of books here left behind by previous coworkers.  I'm plowing through the memoirs, tickled to find titles that have been in the back of my mind for years and others that so closely fit my interests.  The fascinating and heart-wrenching "Educated," a young woman's coming-of-age story and reconciliation of her fundamentalist upbringing with the wider modern world; the acerbically funny "The Sex Lives of Cannibals," an American-abroad take on a tiny Pacific island; "Reading Lolita in Tehran," the passionate, sobering recounting of one professor's struggle to maintain and teach independent thinking under an oppressive government; "Rowing to Latitude," an adventurous couple's ambitious and exhausting self-supported trips along Alaska's coast and the length of its biggest rivers.  Lots of food for thought, and inspiration for travel...

When not scrubbing the burger-gristle-encrusted flat-top grill with a charcoal-like brick or individually wrapping sandwich components for pipeline workers and longhaul truckers, my own adventures have tended toward trying to photograph the pinkest and purplest moments of sunsets.  Technically, the sun no longer clears the nearby mountains, but the internet tells me "daytime" is about 10:30am - 2:50pm now.  And just about all of it appears as sunset.  

Also, my friend Abby accompanied me on my first night ski. Her headlamp revealed all kinds of animal tracks, including some hefty moose prints; my headlamp promptly quit about twenty seconds in.  I thought the batteries had had plenty of time to recuperate after being submerged in a stream six months ago -- they still work, I just turned the light on! -- but perhaps they've earned a nice quiet retirement. 

Per John's request, here is the location of Coldfoot (plus other places I've been in Alaska).

catching some of the last real rays

view from the airport loop road

Also, I baked a very tasty chocolate cake.

I know I can be very tardy getting back to comments, but I could really use your feedback, friend-readers.  After a 15-year hiatus, I'm going to regularly spend time in a gym.  It felt really good to get the fan whirring on the rowing machine, but I broke down in confused laughter several times because I just couldn't find the right tunes.  In normal life I'm pretty picky and, I'll be honest, judgmental about music.  But the rules don't apply for kitchen jobs or the gym.  I had a good streak of Lady Gaga songs, and a bit of luck with remixed-for-120-140bpm-90s-pop-hits, but dozens of workout playlists were ridiculous and/or awful.  I'll stand by my No Rap, No Country policy, but otherwise I'm desperate for your suggestions.  (Or maybe I'll just loop "Born This Way" for 45 minutes.)

That's really my only problem.  Otherwise, life is good in the way north.  I mean, stumbling across the snowy path to the rickety pallet you stand on to dump the old fryer oil promises to continue being a weekly issue for me, but there are some basic solutions I can employ, like letting it cool off first, and walking slower.  Ditto with cold hands while skiing: bring extra gloves.

Looking over a few notes from the past weeks, two fantastic things happened that restored my faith in civilization -- the election results, and my friend helping me obtain a space heater for my room.  I'm fairly self-reliant (and experienced with wearing several sweaters at once), but being able to count on and contribute to our communities and shared resources truly strengthens us.

This is a really charming cabin the summer forest service people live in.  Look at the snow!!!

Dusk is now happening about 4:15pm, and it is lovely.

Interior

Rather than feeling on the outskirts, the edge of habitation, Coldfoot has the sense of being at the center.  Of course, yes, it is a hub, the only coffee around for 250 miles in any direction, but it's also in almost a bowl, surrounded by mountains, the sun revolving around it in a low arc.  And in the camp is a den of repurposed construction trailers, and in that den is my room, and in my room is a pile of clothes semi-successfully insulating a human.

It's actually pretty nice out (10-20F), often sunny and rarely even a breath of wind.  That stillness adds to the centrality of interiority: my snow-crunching steps generate the only sound, and that sound radiates out.  I mean, there's the occasional bird flitting past, a stream burbling nearby, the weary farting of a truck engine braking along the highway -- but you don't have to go far into the woods for triangulation points to melt away and a little sphere of "you are here" to reorient where the median is.

This all sounds pretty ego-centric; rather, I mean it in the way of my old pal Emerson and his transparent-eyeball theory (you'll have to google it, hyperlinks are beyond my ability on the phone).  I'm certainly not the center of the universe, nor is Coldfoot.  But here is accessible a sense of the center, the interior of the interior.

And evidently this generates in me a strong desire for tuna melts.  With an entire diner menu at my disposal (they're feeding me while I quarantine for a week), that is the sustenance my soul yearns for.

a very winding river

some very frosty fireweeed

some sunny peaks behind some fog

Fallin'

Well ok, then.  The twists and turns and reversals of fortune that this year has brought upon us have shaken out at long-last to take me to Coldfoot, AK, for the winter.  Wherefore, thou enquirest?  Because cold and auroras and another stint as Egg Lady.  Fingers crossed there won't be any oatmeal to-go at this job...

So I will have to continue to live vicariously through friends lucky enough to be in Antarctica this go around.  (Kelly, make sure to pat the tiny frog on the troll bridge for me, for good luck.)  -However, I will ski and listen to lots of Ween at work and be mostly cut off from the rest of the world, so there's plenty of similarities.

There is no way to overstate how wonderful it is that allergies are done for the year.  Not only can I reliably breathe without liquid trickling down my face, but being able to smell things and not wake up dry-mouthed and headache-y from drug-addled dreams really puts the spring back in one's step.

Cute guy we foraged.

St. James and harbor, Beaver Island, on a little impromptu trip with mom and dad

P.S. - Blogger is fucking everything up so I can't format anything.  I know the first paragraph is justified but I can't undo it; the pictures don't belong at the end; the captions are mismatched.  But nothing I do will fix it.  Boooo.

Fun With Fungi

After a multi-day journey to New Zealand, 14-day quarantine, and two-week weather delay, the first new crop of people to arrive in Antarctica since February finally made it.  At about the same time, the mainbody crew of summer people left the states to follow.  Alas, no last-minute spot opened for me (the usual 1,000 has been trimmed to 300, and my position was cut).  So, I will contrive my own version of cold, remote, idiosyncratic life.  Hardly any mail, let alone packages, will make it to my guy working there, so if you'd like to enjoy the spoils of my compulsion to produce baked goods and postcards, just say the word.

It actually tastes like chicken!

The mosquitoes are finally gone and these wet woods are ideal for exploring.

While the rest of the country smolders in forest fires or drowns in tropical storms, northern Michigan chugs along with autumn's changing leaves and prolific mushroom fruiting.  We've found scads of oysters, huge florets of chicken-of-the-woods, and legions of tender puffballs.  Dad wants to find honeys, and it's about time to check the spot where we've found lion's mane.  Mom has the sharpest eye by far, and the sometimes-sly half-smile hints she's waiting to see if we'll spot our quarry.

ventus aestatis

As someone who generally eschews technology, I have been surprised by how much I appreciate video chat. I prefer my newspapers in physical form, I stubbornly whip cream by hand, and I am writing this with a pen.* But being able to not only converse but also to see the myriad shading of expressions -- the familiar mapping and choreography of facial features -- is wonderfully connective.

*Ok, I did get a new phone, and a functioning phone number.  Limited time offer, call me now!  This is my third phone in 16 years.

The lake levels are historically high so I walked the Suburban where the river meets the bay.

I've also been connecting with wind and water, cycling the coastal roads, paddling parallel to the shore, walking alongside orchards and vineyards when I think no one will see me trespassing, and checking out the far north of the UP with mom and dad.  My little tent and rainfly did great in a thunderstorm, and though we later retreated to a hotel, we swam in Lake Superior and ate pasties and foraged for firewood like you should.

rock islands near Copper Harbor

The driftwood didn't burn so well but there was plenty in the woods.

Houghton is surprisingly similar in style to the towns around Pittsburgh.  -Joanna, I thought of you and your "sisu" shirt here in Finn country.

Grand Junc Railroad

Like my high school senior class motto, I'll say "It seemed like a good idea at the time."  Flying sucks.  Sitting around in airports with a mask on totally sucks.  I like trains, and despite several lackluster Amtrak journeys of yore, I decided to take the (historically) renowned Zephyr from Grand Junction, CO, to Chicago, and then the Blue Water Limited to Kalamazoo.

columbines perched on Crag Crest

Kelly perched on a big rock in the river at the Black Canyon

impossible-to-steer kayak perched on the shore of the Blue Mesa Reservoir

There are lots of canyons in western Colorado, and we were entreated by the conductor to savor the views as track work necessitated our creeping along at 20mph for hours at a stretch.  The rock walls were pretty, and my mind subsided to a depth of abstraction that is only achievable on trains, with their regular motion, white noise, voyeur window views, and simultaneous immersion in and detachment from the environments they pass through.

My coach car wasn't very populated, and the passengers were quiet nearly the entire time.  No one struck up a conversation with the lady that brought her own hard-boiled eggs, steamed broccoli and cabbage and black bean salad, with olives and dates for snacking.  (To be fair, I was also kind of sweaty.)  Perhaps I should have sprung for a sleeper berth.  I was able to pretzel-wedge myself on two seats to sleep most of the night.

And then, after the dissolution of undifferentiated hours of transit, the reconstitution of self and assignation of identity upon arrival.  How lucky am I to get picked up by my brother and whisked to a domestic haven of leafy trees, an excited nephew showing me where the praying mantises hatched, baby niece drinking from the cat's water dish, and sister-in-law picking just-ripe tomatoes.

And then family on steroids, helping my mom (some) with watching my nephew, back at our house.  Now mom is "grama," and fantasy and invention are prized over my pragmatism and matter-of-factness.  For some reason, the usually dormant strict moral stickler in me is awakened by small children, and generates sanctimonious praise of teeth brushing and neatly put away toys.  But we had lots of fun swimming, where the energy you expend in the waves is transferred right back to you.

A Little Bird

I never knew hummingbirds traveled with such a distinct sound.  At least, the variety that populate the high country of Colorado announce their presence throughout the daylight hours with a hybrid avian-insectile trill.  One imagines that if they perhaps slowed their frantic flitting their ceaseless search for calories needn't be so frenzied.  But then they'd have a completely different nature, and would forfeit what makes them so captivating.

I've been trying to be a responsible person, grocery shopping only occasionally, hand sanitizing, going on remote hikes with this guy:

panoramic Yankee Girl Mine ruins

still-icy Columbine Lake

I'm not sure how to classify an afternoon at the clothing-optional hot springs -- I maintained social distance, yet I can't help thinking these sorts of places are closed throughout the rest of the world.  I spent the 4th of July far (very far) from any crowd, and boosted my immunity with several infusions of s'mores.

It just so happens I recently had my lung function and capacity tested (for potential upcoming work).  Decades of choral singing and the last month of hiking above 10,000ft still left me seeing stars and choking on air from this weird little experiment.

Now for a final few days out west, I'll splash around in a big reservoir and play roulette with Antarctica staffing decisions.

Hot and Cold

If you are going to spend some time in the Denver suburbs, try to sandwich it between two sets of stunning alpine lakes.

The Blue Lakes en route to Mt. Sneffels hold their own with Telluride's Alta Lakes from last writing.

And try to go with someone who knows the ins and outs of city traffic, the best Indian food, and friends and family brimming over with hospitality.  Because work-mandated physical exams and the submission of Kafkaesque* bureaucratic paperwork acutely intensifies the soullessness of the 'burbs.

*I haven't yet dropped this one at a cocktail party, Mrs. Shelley-Barnes, but I have deployed it occasionally in writing.

on top of old Baldy

On another note, I have been impressed -- not for the first time -- how delicate is the degree to which shade and wind protect or menace one.  In the blazing sun, my sweaty self rallies under the canopy of trees and gratefully forges on into the wind.  But of course the same moderate breeze and cloud-cover is carelessly lethal and effortlessly consumes human warmth, challenging our internal flame.  Maybe that's why campfires are so satisfying: sitting on the edge of that threatening cold, staring at the ethereal substance of our survival and comfort.  And to look up at the stars, a billion enormous yet tiny pinprick replications of our campfire, burning much too far away to actually warm us, but gratifying as distant indication of such fire.

Goldmine

5/30
If you go the long way, it turns out round trip from Denver to northern Michigan is 4,267 miles.  I am a lucky enough woman to get picked up in a pick-up and driven to visit a handful of far-flung friends -- safely socially distant, of course -- with comfy sleeping quarters to boot.  From mom and dad's in Traverse City, to my brother's family in Kalamazoo, across the endless grass-sea of Iowa and Nebraska, up to Spearfish, SD (hi Dan and Marcie!), over to Missoula (hi Bret!) and lovely Hamilton, MT (hi Greg an Dale!), desert-y Ogden, UT (hi Jake!), and a stop at Avon, CO (hi Eddie!), before coming to rest in western Colorado.

Cheers to this great guy sharing cheese with me in lovely places, like Ironton.

And for lending a sense of scale to my landscape photos.  (Alta Lakes)

Two weeks passed enjoyably, with tailgate coffee and roadside avocados and good company.  Life ain't too shabby in the back of a truck, especially with a solid tarp over the hard-shell topper for rainy nights.  But life is downright fucking luxurious in a 23-ft camper trailer.  There is a toilet that flushes, and not one but TWO gas stoves (indoor and outdoor) upon which to simmer one's Italian sausage tomato sauce.  Kelly has worked out the plumbing and could already back the trailer like a pro; we study the map and are overwhelmed by national forest and canyons to hike.


6/6
A week in and around Ouray has pretty much reconciled me to missing Alaska this summer.  Because not only is there unlimited amazing hiking, there's a gorge, with a canyon, and 14,000-ft peaks dotted with abandoned mines and defunct narrow-gauge railways, and snow and pines and wildflowers -- !  And I still bake...a little.  Blondies and biscuits and granola so far, and pie to come (the 'lil trailer oven is surprisingly good at holding heat).  But really the best part is being with Kelly.

Like the (presumably) wealthy retirees that surround us at the RV park, we prepare coffee and breakfast on miniature appliances and sit on the couch we folded the bed back up and over.  There, though, the similarities end, as we gear up to wander the steep rocky passes of the Uncompahgre, scramble up piles of tailings to disintegrating former mining infrastructure, and marvel at the impossibly hardscrabble mountainsides, and the equally hardscrabble people that sought their fortunes there.  No blondies or flush-toilets for them, though one surprisingly sturdy sort of relic withstands the elements upon the rock face: outhouses.

The end of the line in Silverton.

cactus blooms above Ouray

Are we in Norway?

And That's How I Became a Gas Station Attendant

It's official: I signed my contract to be a fuelie next season!*  When I was little I considered being a musician; I got a little older and wanted to be a law professor; by high school I thought I'd be a political speech writer.  After seven years as a book editor, things really went sideways and I cooked, administrative assistanted, and drove.  With yet another semi-calculated lateral move, I will pump gas.

*footnote/gloss/fine print
1) I will be a Fuels Operator, performing such duties as transferring diesel from storage tanks to buildings around town, driving a big ol' truck to deliver fuel, dispensing jet fuel to airplanes, laying out and checking hoses, and helping offload the annual resupply tanker ship.
2) This is an opportunity for me to advance my, uuhhh, nascent mechanical skills.  I mean, I did take shop class (one trimester) in 7th grade, and I did (eventually) figure out (and subsequently forgot) how to dismantle and reassemble a commercial deli slicer in my (wait for it...) salad days (haha).*
3) Next season will be somewhat/rather/wildly complicated by the coronavirus.  The details are being hashed out, but it's likely the program will scale back projects and personnel.
4) No one really knows when New Zealand is going to allow anyone to enter the country again.  Having only recently escaped, I can verify that they have zero interest in a bunch of germy people transiting through their stringently protected island oasis.

*footnote to the footnote
So I actually learned how to take apart and clean and put back together a deli slicer working at a deli when I was 17.  Among other things, I made salads at this deli.  And then my first season at McMurdo I used Shreddie Vedder, the industrial salad shooter slicer in the so-called Salad Room, which necessitated me drawing (I am terrible at drawing) the five or so components that you screwed it to make the blades work, and describing for myself in my notebook at length what I thought they looked like and how they fit together because just looking at the metal parts in my hands each time it was like I had never seen them before.  Normally I hate terrible puns, but those were ACTUAL salad days. :p 

Last October, I was fixated on photographing a certain image that never quite worked out.  Out at the airfield, maybe six or seven of these sled-trailers with fuel tanks were parked in a line about fifty feet apart.  They had circular holes in the metal braces (which you can barely make out on the lower left of the tank); you could look through one and see the next tank, and then through its hole to see the next tank.  I'm not sure if any camera or depth of field would show more than one, given their distance apart.  But trust me, it looked cool.

It will be an interesting season, no doubt.  I'll be closing valves!  Analyzing samples!  Turning giant wrenches!  Legit working outside, south of the Antarctic Circle!  And the isolation will take on a new tone.  I'm guardedly optimistic for next October -- a rare commodity at present.  And I'm duly optimistic about spending a long chunk of time this summer with a certain guy of noted quality.  That's right, no updates from Alaska this year, but yes reports of hiking and cooking and fun.

Some Things I’ve Eaten While Stranded

10 - homemade scones

9 - cans of tuna

8 - pounds of potatoes

7 - quarts of yogurt

6 - heads of broccoli

5 - pounds of cheese (mostly cheddar, also some brie and feta and havarti)

4 - bottles of Sauvignon Blanc (well, drunk, not eaten)

3 - pounds of butter

2 - pounds of chocolate

1 - can of tom yum soup

This might be my favorite Christchurch graffiti.

I have eaten a variety of other things over the course of New Zealand’s four weeks of (ongoing) lockdown.  But something about these items captures the dilemma of cooking for oneself in an unstocked kitchen only temporarily yours.  I guess it’s easier to just repeat than be inventive during each fraught grocery store visit.  I haven’t bought any spices; how am I consuming such vast amounts of garlic and pumpkin seeds but not moving through the eggs?  I think I’ve got supplies worked out to last the remaining week.  Things are about to get a little bacon-heavy, but there’s plenty of cabbage to balance it out.

It’s fun seeing friends and society in general spending time in the kitchen.  Even if you’re subsisting on ramen and Spaghettios, I think it’s incredibly valuable to *daily* have your hands (er, at least a spatula) on the food you eat.  And to people making anything and everything from scratch (shout out to Tom Pence!), three cheers for your efforts and enjoyment of food.  Maybe instead of waiting for things to get back to normal we’ll find we like doing things differently.

It had been outrageously beautiful fall weather.

NZ buttermilk is super thick.  Combine with their 

wonderful cultured butter and devour delectable scones.

Check my nails/Baby how you feelin’

Spring and fall, tiny daisies cover the botanic garden lawns.

I miss you, brunettes with glasses! (pictured without glasses)

3/22

I was an intense nail-biter as a kid.  At some point in 7th grade I decided that as part of my plan to not be such a weirdo I’d have to cut it out.  I steeped myself and did so, one fingernail at a time.  (I started with the left thumb, then the right thumb, working toward the pinkies.)  I know the process was complete by the end of high school because I granted myself a reprieve for AP exams, during which I bit and chewed through the strenuous hours.  I still often distractedly pick at my nails and cuticles, and it’s a tell that something is up when I trim them obsessively, seeking to perfectly control the contour, or length, or evenness.

It’s especially important to tidy things up before flying.  Any hangnail or jagged morsel of skin will be bloodied and/or obliterated.  All those lines to wait in, people to put up with, and pent up tension from delays and bad smells and invaded personal space makes me desperate to gouge my eyes out; as that has its downsides, I make do with destroying my nails.

Maybe alcohol or sedatives would help, but I’m kind of stubborn—stoic? masochistic?—about maintaining outward calm on my own steam.  Wish me luck, if the planes even fly, on 30+ hours of travel.

————

I apologize for that gross digression.  NZ continues to be fabulous and is also clamping down in response to that thing everyone is talking about.  It is just the beginning of autumn, with leaves parting from their branches, the evening sun slanting impossibly golden on the fading flowers, and thick clouds shrouding the mountains and valleys well into the morning.

I would like to report that I ate two oysters, and they were okay.  They started off the “trust the chef” tasting menu at my favorite restaurant in the world.  Not normally my thing, these guys were pretty mild and went well with my Sauvignon Blanc.  The subsequent garlic baked mussels, salmon carpaccio and tartar, brown butter filet of sole, crisp pork belly, and braised short ribs, all with their accompanying garnishes and mosaic of flavor, were fantastic.  (And sticky toffee pudding!)  Stay safe and stay in business, Boatshed Cafe.  

————

3/23

Well that was quick.  My chances of being marooned indefinitely just significantly increased.  Not great for the psyche, but a relief for my fingernails.

Valderee Valderah

The concrete tent in Arthur’s Pass.

me and a glacier

Is it glamping if you make satay noodles with fresh veg?

In the last few weeks I’ve fended off giant mountain parrots, twice eaten braised beef cheek, crept through caves, boiled noodles in a field of sheep poop, and washed my hair once.  I’m pleased to report that my natural greasiness can quickly recover even the most frozen-desert-damaged hair.

There was also a day when I got a massage and read a (year-old) New Yorker magazine.  But the really luxurious experiences are gorgeous lonely beaches with rock outcroppings and the rare moments beside water when you’re not being eaten by sand flies.  Tonight my travel buddy and I are living it up like thousand-aires and sleeping in a hut rather than our tents.  Both provide refuge from asshole insects, but the hut features a large picture window that looks out on the lake and mountains beyond, and provides the light by which I write this (sparing my janky headlamp that’s on the fritz due to previously dampened, three-year-old batteries).

I’ve got one week left before I return to virus-hysteria world.  Don’t worry, I’ve got my own supply of toilet paper already.

Sleepy South

Lots of open water already.

By the way, this is the man I’m exclusively dating.  

Look how handsome he is.

Programming note: I’m back to doing this on my phone, so non-sequiturs are the fault of autocorrect.

Dude, I am TIRED.  The last two weeks on station it didn’t matter how much I slept (or how little I worked), I was just tiiiired.  We had some lovely snow and the penguins hung around; I bundled up for the cold first sunset; and then I got shuffled and delayed a few days which allowed for more thorough goodbyes and mental preparation for departure.  The last days of McMurdo summer are a quasi-ghost town: everyone’s doing last-minute chores, presumably inside, and the typical hustle and heavy machinery activity disappear as though it’s a snow day from school.  

Even with all that extra nap time, here I am in beautiful New Zealand, adventure at my fingertips—and I’m sleeping a solid 11 hours.  Ok, I’ve walked over some decent hills and scrunched my toes in some beach sand and am well on my way to a solid tan.  In a few days a buddy and I will tackle some sizable peaks and saddles and river crossings along the non-flooded portion of the Rees-Dart Track.  My tent stakes will take their first plunge into international soil, and I’ll light my own camp stove for the first time.  There are currently three types of cheese in my rucksack (all Kiwi).  I’m rested (I think) and I’m ready.