Drug, Booze, and Vinegar Cocktails

I spent much of the previous week shivering in double sweatpants and sweatshirts, broken by brief periods of sweating, visiting medical, and shambling past my hard-working colleagues to procure yogurt and mashed potatoes.  At least everyone could see I was one-quarter dead and didn’t begrudge me all that sweet, sweet time languishing in clammy pajamas.  And then science came to the rescue.  It’s amazing what a course of antibiotics will do.

The observation tube is back this year, and I delighted in tiny fish, krill, and mini-jellyfish, along with the gorgeous cut-crystal underside of the ice shelf.  My friend was lucky enough to be in there when nearby divers were working, so you can see what it looks like from the outside.

Yet more news in science, I made it through an entire lecture about sea spiders, which are like giant (2-8”) daddy longlegs but with almost no body.  Some issues under study are the relation between ocean oxygen content, polar gigantism, and the sea spider’s utilization of oxygen.  They speculate that the relative isolation of the Antarctic ocean, its cold temperature, its relatively calm tidal action, and its high oxygenation all contribute to the ease with which animals stay flush with oxygen.  Sea spiders spend their time walking around poking and sucking juices out of sponges, jellyfish, and other gooey things that end up on the ocean floor. 

The most interesting thing I made in the kitchen lately was a vinegar-based Carolina barbeque sauce.  At first it struck me as pretty disgusting: vinegar, more vinegar, some vinegar-based hot sauce.  Because I couldn’t handle that, I included ketchup, honey mustard, molasses, and dfjsdkjfnbmb (secret ingredient).  It was terrible to try to gauge on its own, but on pulled pork it was surprisingly good.  Not as good as sugary red KC Masterpiece, but decent if you insist on having Carolina-type barbecue.

Furious Cucumber

I decided to be the change I wanted to see; I organized a party.  Inspired by my predecessor egg line instructor from last year, I knew the best way to bridge the galley gulf, the perilous gap between cooks and stewards, to unite those of us who mop: after-work team-building beverages.  And like that somewhat wise man last year, I knew there was one perfect place for this event—the Hotel California lounge.  HoCal is rather rusticated at this point, but it was one of the first for-real dorm buildings on station.  It’s on the opposite side of town from all the other dorms, and has, for the most part, a transient population, housed primarily in two large bunk rooms, or man-camps.  Unlike one of the bars or my own lounge, there is about 0% chance of running into one of my bosses.  When I arrived to commandeer the lounge, two nice middle-aged guys were watching “Frozen,” and responded enthusiastically to my interruption.

It’s pretty easy to lure people with the promise of free alcohol, but I bumped up the enticement quotient by advertising a “signature cocktail.”  This consisted of me soaking cucumber slices in a fifth of gin, then adding some lime juice, tonic, ice, and, for culinary flair, parsley.  A refreshing summer sipper that paired well with a sunny evening on the back porch deck.  I came up with alternative nametags for everyone—I had time to kill, I don’t know most people’s actual names, and I hoped to spark spirit-animal-related conversation.  Some that I remember now are:

Wet Squirrel

Bedazzled Whale

Confused Panda

Sagacious Eel

The Jolly Snail

Meeeeeeeooow

So that was fun.  Unfortunately, that night my sore throat crossed over into awful-cold territory, and I won’t get to partake in tonight’s Halloween shenanigans. 

In other news this week, I got quite close to three seals sleeping heavily.  Close enough to watch their nostrils open and close to breathe, and hear adorable motorboat-like snores every so often.  Pupping season is upon us, and I’m going to imagine some of the flipper-waving and stomach-scooting action presages baby seal-slugs to come.

Here's an ethereal picture someone else took last year of a seal underwater:

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Blurst of Times...

What's the best thing ever when you're tired?  Sleep.  What's the best thing ever when you wake up in the morning and don't have to go to work?  Breakfast-in-bedroom.  A full spread of avocados, apples, cheese, bread, yogurt, coffee, and a 'lil Bailey's is how I plan to start every "Saturday."

Once I get myself out of bed, next comes looking over my week's brief notes.  Here are some direct transcriptions:

- chx. parm. + pasta = food

- falafel from scratch (3 cases parsley)

- decade dance party - rad makeup - feeling human

Firstly, let me introduce you to one of this year's brilliant but logistically annoying concepts: 24-hour food.  There is already 24-hour pizza, deli bar, cereal, waffles, wrapped leftovers, and prepackaged food; but pretend none of those exist.  Cue the trumpets, we've got TWENTY-FOUR HOUR FOOD!  Originally, this was described as a short-order grill, pasta bar, rice, and more.  For my shift's part, we are meant to prepare and serve pasta, sauce, and a pasta-type casserole.  This is meant to be delicious, original, and change every day; this is meant to utilize leftovers; this is meant not to utilize leftovers; this is meant to be vegetarian; this is meant to be semi-vegetarian; this is meant to be sauces from scratch while using leftovers while being half vegetarian while being fresh and hot while being easy and not adding time to prep while being easy while being carefully made in small batches...get the idea?  It's really quite simple and we just sort out the details, as management expects.  Long story short, I hacked up some previously-baked pre-made breaded chicken parmesan patties with congealed cheese, added pasta, and heated it up.  Half got eaten, so at least some garbage was saved from the...garbage.

Contrastingly, I was rewarded with making some quite tasty falafel from scratch two days later.  Chickpeas were soaked, spices were toasted, and most significantly, a couple cubic yards (3 cases; 15 pounds?) of parsley were minced (no, no, not by hand, in the food processor).  I listened to J.T. croon, I ice-cream scooped an estimated 1,000 balls, and I deep-fried them.   

Saturday night was the Decade Dance Party at Gallagher's, the larger/louder of the bars.  Luckily, I had thoroughly perused the selections at the Skua (like a Goodwill, but free) and found a peach prom dress as well as a short-tight-snakeskin-print dress.  I also nabbed some wickedly pointy black heels, but come party time decided to protect my toes with red Mario Batali clogs.  My friend down the hall provided makeup, which I asked be applied to look "clown-like," and we decided the decade that most applied to my outfit would be '90s, so I had a high ponytail and those strings of bangs on either side like Alicia Silverstone.  There was a pretty good turnout, and we bounced around to disco and pop.  My makeup applicator friend wore my favorite outfit of the evening: also '90s, but the previous century.  Something possessed her to bring to this continent a for-real bonnet, and she paired it with a long patterned skirt and cardigan for that classic pioneer-ette look.

Here is a picture of gloaming.

Smorons; and, On Onions

Perhaps those of you who participate(d) in seasonal/annual activities will understand this: the sophomore experience.  You return for a second season of marching band/water polo/Lepidoptera conference convening, and there’s a mix of comfort, because you’ve been there before and know what to expect, and a tinge of disappointment, because the iconic characters that shaped your first impressions might not be there, because some of the newness and discovery inevitably can’t happen twice, and any changes seem a slap in the face to the sacred original.  (Did you make it through that long sentence?  Great.)  Hopefully, this feeling is tempered by the benefits of not being a complete nube—already having friends, knowing roughly what to expect from said activity, a modicum of confidence in your abilities.

Returning for a summer season on the Ice has been all of this, plus extra (um, sorry, hold on, I promise it gets better) disappointment.  Suffice to say lots of looking forward to something while playing a nostalgic loop in your head means reality will land on your lap with a bit of a thud.  Also suffice to say (as I’m not supposed to reflect negatively on the program), there are lots of changes in the kitchen and we are working hard (i.e.: struggling furiously) to accommodate the new sky-high expectations. 

Most earth-shatteringly so far: I only get to be on egg line one day a week.

Enough gloom.  All the cooks in the kitchen are cool and we get along and support each other, so there’s a jolly togetherness.  And when the boss “didn’t realize” my first day was supposed to be my weekly day off, and encouraged me to stay since I was already there and in my uniform, at least the same thing happened to two other people so we could all bust ass seven days in a row together. 

The most entertaining thing to me in the kitchen so far has been the return of smelling like I work at McDonald’s.  It doesn’t matter what I’m making.  Whether I just chop fresh peppers or stand over the grill, I will reek of greezy onions before the day is over.  I decided to start taking note of what time of the day I was saturated with allium scent, and reached a record yesterday at minute 8 into the day when I incautiously dumped onion powder into a container for barbeque sauce and it foomped up in a dust cloud.  The corner of my room where I put my laundry bag radiates greezy onion like rapidly increasing atomic fission, increasing exponentially as the week goes on.

Also this week in onion fun, our cases of scallions must have frozen, are consequently a bit yellow and wilted, and…disturbingly snot-filled.  I have come across this in rare instances before, but it is still quite alarming to pull off the unwanted outer layer and, instead of a crisp snap, release a resigned little gush of clear scallion phlegm.  

And I will leave you with this sexy potato sack from the veggie cooler.

En Route

Oh boy, I guess this is happening.  The trip as far as LA is ok; not awash in tears and -- complacent?  What's between content and resigned?  No, that's too dour.  Let's make up a word, like...consigned -- which, yes, is a word, but we're going to imagine it means contentment as a result of acceptance of something difficult.

Well now!  Out of the recesses of psyche and into the sunshine. :)  wen I get off the next plane it will be springtime.  Remember that bright-green young grass, and purple and red buds, flowers to challenge the color spectrum?  And lambs all over the place, fuzzy and kittenish.  Ok, sit with those images before more lame metaphors spill out.

Get Ready to Get Ready

The process of packing has always been extremely straightforward for me, one of the few things my brain accomplishes to my satisfaction with almost no conscious effort.  Unfortunately, that makes for boring conversation when people ask with wonder, "How in the world do you pack for five months away?" and I honestly respond, "Put some clothes and books in a bag."  I actually attach a silly amount of sentiment to certain shirts, scarves, and homey objects; embracing this fact and accepting that the comfort of taking a favorite article means I will appear more or less in uniform in all my pictures over a ten-year period helps limit the overall amount of stuff.  And my parents trained me to only ever take carry-on luggage, so even one medium bag besides my backpack leaves room for, to my mind, an embarrassing overabundance of possessions.  It also helps that I'm perfectly happy with one pair of shoes.  (*Caveat: For this trip, I also have a pair of work shoes.)

Of slight issue is my penchant for reading.  I could probably watch a movie or two on the flight, but that takes care of four of the 36 => infinity hours it will take me to get to the Ice.  I love actual print on paper, which gets weighty, and I usually buy books to keep and reread, so they're not likely to get ditched after consumption.  This time I'll compromise somewhat, with two books and a disposable Sunday Times.

Speaking of flying, this year I was one of a "lucky few" ticketed directly from LA to Auckland.  This would be more exciting if I went from New York to LA, as you think would be possible with the give-or-take 8,000 daily flights between those cities; but no, I'll get to jaunt over to San Francisco to tempt the God of Airport Delays just for fun.  The rundown is: New York to San Francisco; San Francisco to LA; LA to Auckland; Auckland to Christchurch.  Technically, it's a two-day journey, since you cross the International Date Line, a.k.a. time travel.  Let's assume everything goes smoothly and I sleep on every plane to emerge bright-eyed in New Zealand for a few days before going to the cold place (the last leg to Antarctica is about five hours on a military plane with an enormous sack lunch -- like two of everything).

Mentally, to get ready, I'm focusing on reasons I enjoyed it so much last year.  Interesting people, beautiful landscape, oddly gratifying work, and just a new slice of life...all good things to shuffle with doubts and worries.  Monday morning departure looms like fog: though it's familiar ground, I step carefully.

...Continuing...

Welcome to the horrible layout of Blogger, where random leading, uncontrolled text wrapping, and school-assignment font subconsciously warp the mind's processing of content.  Excuse me, former editor/typesetter feeling grumbly here.

So!  Back to the Ice.  I have rather complicated feelings about returning: it's a place I really like with people and work I like, and it fulfills my desire to travel and experience different ways of living; however, I'm also embarking on a stage of life where Matt and I shift from spouses to friends.  Here's a naked plea for lots of email and mail, to keep in touch with the world that still has night and stars.  :)

Regular postage works because it's technically a US address:

Claire Veligdan
McMurdo Station, ASC
PSC 769 Box 700
APO AP 96599-1035

Here's hoping for a good season, and a trip down that doesn't include lying on a cot at LAX in the wee smalls.  Wherever you are, enjoy the lovely autumn.