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.

Sit Down and Stay a While

Oh my, well, that's over.  Let's hope that will be my only six-day week of the summer.  Because the only reason you should agree to work that many days in a row is so you can go to Antarctica.  I hope my fellow breakfast cook enjoyed his three-day weekend, and never gets another one.  :)  I did celebrate by hiking up the hill last night, having a nice little fire, and watching the sunset.

It's rained steadily most of today (well, since I woke up at noon -- the sun set about midnight, and this day off is dedicated to laziness), affording the opportunity to read through some of my previous notes on cooking.  A few days ago, when it was quite busy and I was plating my 87th side of bacon, I was reminded of the eternal hustle of the fancy restaurant where I trained.  I'm thankful to no longer carry anything/everything (boiling pots of stock, fifty-pound bins of oysters, endless quarts of dill pickles) up and down a steep flight of stairs.  I acutely recall the failure-panic of trying, in way too short a time, to prepare for service, and my resentment of seemingly minor requests or additions to the systematic labor thereof.  If something prevented me from finishing slicing lemon wedges by 2:25, I just had to press on with the other parts of readying my station and hope for some spare, salvaged moments to catch up on the lemons.

Which brings me to: oatmeal to go.  My fellow Americans...for fuck's sake, can you not even handle instant oatmeal at this point?  Like, we could give you the already-boiling water -- for free! -- and you could effortlessly have oatmeal.  Since you placed your order the night before, I intuit that you are capable of planning (perhaps next time you could purchase instant oatmeal packets).  Since you're taking it to go, I intuit that you do not care about the pleasure of sitting and eating breakfast (consider injecting yourself with caloric fluid).  Since half the time you order it plain, unadorned by raisin or pecan, I intuit that you do not care about food in any way (wood pulp is pretty much equivalent to plain oatmeal).  What kind of sadist interrupts the earnest cooking of eggs and pancakes to procure oatmeal to go?

Please, stop doing this.

Gosh, I had a lot to say about that.  Let's just calm down with a look at these pretty rain-spheres perfectly cupped by amiably outstretched leaves:

 

Rock the Mag-bus

This post is coming to you from, I think, the false summit of Sugarloaf Mountain, where I await my more intrepid hiking buddies. (Don't worry, I have the bear spray.) It's a lovely day, and the sun was pretty much directly overhead by 9am, which means we sweated through our shirts in about ten minutes. 

On an unrelated note, I thought you might like to know I sighted the elusive bull moose(!). There were dozens of cars pulled off the road; I thought there'd been an accident. But wait -- everyone had a camera or phone in hand -- in a rush the fellow in question cantered across the highway and disappeared back into the woods.

I don't have a segue for this, but I want to share a picture of our party bus.  It's situated a solid twenty feet away from the dorm to allow for raucous celebration without interrupting everyone's sleep. Or at least that's the idea. When a manager (rather lit) ran through the dorm berating us, room by room, to play corn hole at midnight, I wondered if it might be wiser to have a Quiet Bus for those of us inclined to unwinding with knitting and Sherlock Holmes audio books.

Fleshy Fungal Fruits

As I usually enter through the rear kitchen door and fleetingly glance into the restaurant at extremely busy or slow moments, it catches me off-guard how charming our little place is:

A truckload of flowers were delivered a couple weeks ago, and with attentive weeding and watering (not by me) are holding up pretty well.  One of the dishwashers is regularly pulled for gardening duty, resulting in several bathtubs' worth of rhubarb, which ends up in tasty strawberry-rhubarb coffee cake.

Drinking beers on the stoop the other day, hearing stories about employees of yore really put my own efforts into perspective.  I have not (yet)

- peed myself and the common room couch* in a drunken stupor
- arrived to work drunk
- nearly come to blows with my boss's husband
- strewn random foraged mushrooms about the employee kitchen to dry, only to later consume and sicken from them†

*it was later aired and burned
†due to utter lack of effort to identify shrooms, some guys risked paralysis and death; apparently drying mushrooms smell pretty icky


Maybe I can only handle one order ticket at a time, and maybe I forget about the potatoes darkening in the deep fryer for an ill-fated extra thirty seconds; maybe I spray everyone and everything when I wash dishes, and maybe I don't actually distinguish between over easy and medium eggs...but you can count on me never to throw food or spatulas at or sexually harass my coworkers.

Continuing this vein of self-affirmation, I chose a great hike for a great day -- the Triple Lakes trail, seen on this perfectly clear sunny morn (featuring Lake 1):

I hoped for a moose carefully plodding the shallows each time, but Lake 1 was empty, Lake 2 was bare, and Lake 3 dotted by a few ducks.  But it was gorgeous, and the 1,000-foot gain to the ridge had some rewarding views.  I even passed a troup of impeccably-confectionery-chocolate-looking mushrooms.