There's so much here to be awed by, in such different ways. I suppose the food is just another expression of the wild and beautiful contrasts that define the Arctic, like the dramatic swings in daylight and temperature, or the massive industrial infrastructure paired with the majestic landscape. In just the last few days the kitchen has seen:
-homemade s'mores (shmallow, chocolate, and graham all from scratch)
-eggs hard boiled for 45 minutes
-moose marrowbone and dutch oven sourdough with historic old starter
-slop pile of aging leftover meat (for dogs)
-double chocolate cake, Boston cream pie, mantecados (Spanish cookies), lemon tart, walnut blondies -- all the same *day*
-mummified cranberries and potatoes lurking on the back shelves
-"You can leave that grease on there, I'm gonna use it." -Line cook Jeremy
I like being night cook because my day is so nice -- sleep in, read, ski, chat with friends, watch beautiful sunsets. Aside from occasional busy periods during which I forget which burger gets which cheese, the only real downside is cleaning the fryer. Hot, dangerous, and disgusting, every third night is a little tragicomedy that involves trotting with a giant pot of boiling oil through the frigid night to a little shack, climbing a ladder while clutching said pot, pouring it into a begrimed funnel to slurp down into the Great Grease Cube, then scooping, essentially, the remaining liposuction material from the fryer. There is no feeling quite like unwittingly planting your foot in two-inch thick semi-soft lard because the shack door is frozen shut and you've only partially successfully squeezed past the rubber berm/"skirt" of the Great Cube.
