Nice Night for a Ride

Ross Island, Antarctica


A perfectly still night on the eve of a holiday weekend proved the perfect opportunity for an evening skidoo ride.  

Little Loathsome Bean

McMurdo Station, Antarctica

I have never met a green bean that I liked. There was one sunny afternoon when I wandered through a community garden with a preschooler on my heels and we picked fresh green beans from the vine. I munched on one of those, and found it to be not altogether unpleasant. I have also been known to tolerate green beans buried in cream of mushroom soup and topped with crispy fried onions, but I think that is where my appreciation for green beans ends.

The only vegetable I find more loathsome than the lowly green bean is the green pepper. I have very strong feelings about green peppers, and they are not the warm, fuzzy sort of feelings. I truly believe that the world would be a better place without green peppers. I think that they tarnish everything they touch so that any dish that has ever contained green peppers, even if the peppers have been removed, is pretty much ruined. Red, yellow, purple peppers? Bring ‘em on. Chiles, Jalapenos, Banana peppers, and even Habaneros have all made appearances in my kitchens over the years. But green bell peppers have no place in my life.

I am not a vegetable hater. I have a longstanding love affair with Kale and a lingering childhood love of carrots. I’ll eat a whole plate of roasted parsnips and potatoes, and my favorite thing about the holidays is the fresh asparagus that’s flown in. In the summertime, I subsist mostly on leafy greens and homegrown tomatoes, along with the wealth of seasonal fruit. But my love of all things crisp and homegrown simply does not extend to green peppers and green beans.

It’s a bit of a wonder then, that I found myself scooping heaping spoonfuls of green beans onto my plate of curry at lunch. The truth is, I am desperate for vegetables. The spike in population and the decrease in flights has meant a significant decrease in the per capita vegetable availability, here in this barren, soil-less place. Freshies (our beloved New Zealand produce, eggs, and dairy) seem scarce these days, making their appearance primarily in the deli and on the egg grill. Four months into my stay here in the Southernmost reaches of the planet, I am growing bored of the food and dreamy about vegetables. My desperation for something that remotely resembles something that once came out of a garden is apparent in every scoop of green beans. 

Merry Christmas

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

It is Monday morning and I am nursing a cup of strong coffee, struggling to pay attention to another safety meeting that has little to do with my job, and skirting any real issues that plague the station. It is another start to a work week like any other. Christmas has come and gone at McMurdo. Meanwhile, 12,000 miles away, on the other side of the International Date Line, my niece and nephew are swimming in an ocean of wrapping paper, no doubt giddy over the heaps of goodies Santa has left under the Christmas tree.

The holiday season lasts less than week here, and our time off of work is a mere two days- an average weekend in the states, but twice the weekly days off we usually get. It is true that just shortly after thanksgiving the lineman are seen bolting wooden Christmas decorations to the power poles, but aside from that, there is little sign of the coming holiday until a few days before Christmas, when the Waste Management department drags their equipment out of their oversized, dilapidated Quonset hut, and erects a stage for the annual acoustic Christmas show. Oversized pieces of salvaged cardboard line the walls and spray painted with snowflakes and Christmas trees.  Rows of old couches and chairs are set up, and in the front, at the foot of the stage, crazy creek chairs borrowed from the field center are strewn about a carpet of cardboard, protecting the floor-sitters from the decades of stale beer and rotting food juice that line the floor. On Wednesday, I crowded in among friends with whom I have celebrated the last several Christmases, in awe, as always, of the incredible musical talent that seems to accumulate at the bottom of the world. 

The work week officially ended on Friday afternoon, with a white elephant gift exchange. Friday night was the annual town holiday party, in a venue not much fancier than the waste barn. This time the Vehicle Maintenance Facility plays host to the large gathering. Vehicles and hoists were cleared out, in their place, a stage, a bar, and a few clusters of couches. The choir started that evening off with Christmas carols. In one corner, a small line formed to take pictures with Santa who looked suspiciously like one of the IT guys. Tables were scattered about with Christmas cookies and hors d’oeuvres, and on one wall a projector played a slideshow of family pictures contributed by community members. The slideshow was inevitably made up mostly of dogs and children, with a smattering of tropical vacation scenes, hiking snapshots, and photos of family gatherings back home.

The highlight of my holiday weekend, however, was sleeping past 10 am two days in a row! It has been weeks since I have felt remotely well rested. Work days drag into the evening, and I often skate into the galley for dinner mere minutes before it closes. I look at the date on my last post and am shocked to see that it was thanksgiving weekend when I last wrote. I have thought often of writing, about the craft fair and the amazing artistic talent here, or the long awaited decision on a new contractor for the next ten years, or the latest developments with the melting ice pier. But best intentions have fallen flat, plowed under by exhaustion and more pressing needs. Here’s hoping for a January that is calmer and quieter, and allows for a bit more breathing room, and things like writing and running and hiking, favorites largely absent from December.