The Antarctic Book of Cooking and Cleaning by Wendy Trusler

Author:Wendy Trusler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-02-17T00:00:00+00:00

JANUARY 25, 1996

Made dinner tonight for base commander Zuniga, Doctor Rolando and Felipe the young heli pilot just in from Punta Arenas. A real home with running hot water, a CD player, a microwave and sterling candlesticks of all things—still a little culture shocked.

Lena gave me a pelmeni lesson. My tree-planter-sized attempts were a bit structurally unsound—perhaps because I used mashed potatoes in the dough. Felipe said they were more like empanadas.

Pelmeni = perogies = pasties = vareniki = empanadas = patties = dumplings = potstickers.

Bit of a musical language lesson as well tonight; Zuniga translating Spanish love songs in time with Julio Iglesias while Doc packed back the candy canes we brought for dessert. Made dinner plans for when the new volunteers arrive plus a footy match and a Canada House barbeque in two weeks. Offered a ride home. Makes me laugh—it’s only a ten-minute walk up my mountain. Zuniga asked if I’m scared living alone. Should I be? And then out of nowhere he volunteered his bathroom. Assured me it is private and says I can use it whenever I want. Second offer of shower from a base commander in one week. Funny. I’m not sure I’ll get used to this special treatment. Maybe they think I’m swimming out of necessity, not choice—who knows? But I don’t want to offend our guys by accepting or travel even farther to get clean, and really nothing can beat the hot sauna.

I didn’t know there was another sauna, a hotter sauna, until New Year’s. The Diesel guys were like boys in a toy shop that day, pointing out its proximity to my swimming hole, wash basins stacked under a marble bench, a wringer washer, clotheslines strung by the generator fans and a watchman to guarantee my privacy.

Three rooms just for getting clean—two of them lined with gorgeously aged tongue-and-groove wood panelling and lighting soft like candlelight. I asked about a tin tub, the shape of a coffin propped against a wall. One of the guys apologized about its manky condition—it hadn’t been used in years. And they were all a little sheepish about an intricate mural someone burnt on the wall one long winter dreaming of tropical islands and women. I fell in love with the place immediately, and would have switched to the old sauna even if they hadn’t promised to ignore the roster and crank the heat over 200°F whenever I want.

Some days it’s cooking, others it’s cleaning that affords me time for saunas. After morning chores and setting dough to rise, I head to the freezer for supplies and stop at Diesel to put food in basins to thaw—soup for lunch out front closest to the generator fans. I grab a sauna while I wait.

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