write. The wind is a constant sound in the Fosdicks and Antarctica.
Perhaps because we've enjoyed so many near-windless, bluesky days, the
fates have decided it is our time to get blown around a bit. As Tim
mentioned in his previous post, we've been waiting for a big storm that
was forecasted, but hasn't yet appeared. The weather isn't good enough
to move camp, and not good enough to work, but it feels a little guilty
not being totally pinned down by a "proper storm," as Mountain Tim would
say (Tim Burton that is, as opposed to "Science Tim," who is Tim Ivanic,
the geologist) and just have a wee bit of wind. That said, with our
binoculars I can see the 10 miles across the Belchen Glacier, on which
we are camped, to the Phillips range, and there are large clouds of
blowing snow, which means there are high winds in the area.
So back to the topic of guilty pleasures, yesterday was the traditional
American day to celebrate Thanksgiving, and that we did, to the best of
our ability in our meager camp. Our feast last night was orchestrated by
Chez Tim (Mountain Tim), hmmm, how to describe such delights...
It all began with a raid of the "baja" box, code language here for
booze. We began with gin and tonics with "Jesus Ice," which is ice from
a local glacier, termed Jesus Ice because the ice might be 2000 years
old. Yummmy yum yum! Then we moved on to Sparkling White (not Champagne
which science Tim reminds us must be from the Champagne region in
France). In the background DJ Phat D was blaring a variety of tunes
including JBizzle (James Brown) and Professor Chris Kakymchukky's fav,
Katy Perry. We have frequent inpromptu dance parties here, but as the
8x16 kitchen tent has little extra room for dancing, we usually dance in
place, or "in situ." Plenty of space for shakin the hips.
The first proper course was a group appetizer, "tim's special spicy
shrimpy nubbins," which was served in a fry pan on a rox box and we all
ate collectively with forks. I just learned last night that in fact we
british Americans (or North Americans, I should correct myself to
include Prof Kak in this count) use our utensils improperly while
eating. The British, who apparently do everything with a bit more class
and charm than us, do not shovel food into their mouths with an upturned
fork, but rather turn it upside down and place carefully picked bits of
food onto their delicate and sophisticated palates with their left hand.
What a caveman I've been my whole life! That story reminds me that our
trip is as much a cultural exchange as it is a science expedition since
we have one American living in the US of A (me), one American living in
Australia (the illustrious Dr. Fawna "Rock Hammer" Korhonen), one Brit
living in Australia (resident artist Dr. Tim Ivanic), one Brit living in
Britain with a French girlfriend (Timmy B), and one Canadian living in
Maryland, near Disneyland). Displaced peoples we are.
The next course, of course, was the main course, which in traditional
American style, was a bunch of things heaped on to one plate. Chez Tim
baked us each two rosemary and sundried tomato whole wheat rolls, from
scratch, which we used to slop up the homemade Cornish Game Hen gravy,
which Tim (of course) made from the drippings of the Cornish Game Hens,
which were baked in one of our TWO metal box stove top ovens. All of
this was accompanied with boiled mixed veg, Gratin Dauphinoise (cheesy
garlicky taters...) from-the-box stuffing, and freshly opened canned
cranberry jelly. Lets just say that Chris and I (the basler boys) had to
play the "big spoon" game at the end, in which each person has a big
spoon and must eat up anything remaining. Neither of us could move off
our respective asses to help with dishes, as our stomachs were
completely full and it would have been dangerous to move.
In perfect fashion, the next two courses were red wine, which a tipsy
Fawna excitedly produced after her mid-meal voyage to the poop tent,
where we keep all booze, of course. I'm not sure if she went to make
more room for dessert or just to get booze, but in the end we all got
more of the vino, so thats all that mattered.
Earlier in the eve, I made the short journey to the freezer box,
unburied it, and removed the pint-sized milk carton of completely frozen
"eggs". I proceeded to hacksaw, woodsaw, and hammer a portion of the
frozen yellow stuff into submission so that Chez Timmy could thaw them
for necessary inclusion in his "Goat Cake" (a reference to a sad cake
made last year at Simple Doom that unfortunately tasted like Goat).
Fortunately it tasted like it should, blueberry and topped with homemade
cream cheese, lime juice and sugar frosting.
The rest was history. We got more drunk, played some cards, shook some
tailfeather, and went to bed good and early in tradional fashion.
I'm still not hungry.
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