Not an easy task

Sundays are pretty mellow around the station. The tradies don't work on Saturday or Sunday, but on Saturday we all have station duties (ie., collecting the trash, cleaning public areas, peeling mountains of potatoes or carrots or whatever for the next week's meals,) so there is still work to do. Saturday night dinner is a pretty big deal- Gerbil puts in an extra effort, we have wine and candles, and usually dancing after. So, often times, many people are moving a little slowly on Sunday, after the Saturday night revelry. Sunday is also Gerbil's day off, so whoever is on slushy is also faced with the prospect of feeding the whole crew- as many as 38 people, not an easy task!

I had a lazy Sunday myself yesterday. I woke up at about 11, and went into the mess to rustle up some breakfast. I was working on my 4th cup of coffee at around noon while reading a 2 week old newspaper (brought in by a tourist ship), when Al and Nick the Sunday slushies (and penguin biologists) wandered in. They were moving a little gingerly, and were pretty late- usually the slushy is meant to start around 8, on Sunday maybe nine or 10. "Big night, guys?" I asked, and received somewhat ambiguous replies, which I interpreted to mean yes.

They found some coffee and sat down. Al got back up again and let himself into the storage room off the mess, returning with an armload of cookbooks. I asked them what was on the menu for the night. They looked a little sheepish. "Ah...we'll let you know when we figure it out." (Generally, the Sunday cook gives a list of ingredients to Gerbil on Friday or Saturday so he can organize and defrost what they need from our huge maze-like food stores.) I kept sipping my coffee, while they looked at glossy pictures of souffles and fancy-looking soups. They discussed various options, that were shot down one by one, since we didn't have the appropriate ingredients (things are running a little low, these days). The lunch crowd started to trickle in, and when they saw that nothing had been prepared (this happens some Sundays when the slushies can't get it together, but isn't supported by the rest of the station!) they began to make themselves sandwiches and heat leftovers in the microwave. Things weren't looking good.

As I left, the chefs seemed close to a decision. French onion soup, quiches and pizzas, maybe a salad if they could convince Bec to give them some greens from hydroponics. Simple, light, healthy.

I spent the afternoon reading a novel and answering emails. At about 6, I drifted back to the mess to try to find a cribbage partner, maybe get a game in before dinner at 6:30. Corey came by (a die-hard crib freak- his dad taught him when he was little, and showed him no mercy. "But dad, I'm only six!" he would complain when his dad would penalize him for not counting his points correctly...) and we got a game going. As we played, I became aware of a chaotic force nearby. I tuned in, and realized that it was emanating from the kitchen. Al and Nick had recruited Pete (geologist) and Rach (albatross biologist) and the four were trying to get a meal together. The air was punctuated with catastrophic-sounding crashes, followed by the hooting of the unsympathetic remaining chefs, ridiculing whichever one had the fumble fingers. Snippets of conversation floated out "Oh, don't worry mate. She'll be all right. No one will know." Not what you want to hear when it is your dinner being prepared!

We finished our first game at about 6:20. I looked over to the kitchen crew (which seemed to have grown in number, packing the kitchen to capacity), who had pizzas spread over every available surface while they tried to get the toppings on, racing from pie to pie, tripping over each other. Al was heating a large pan on the stove, and there were frequent collisions between him and the pizza assemblers. I watched Al as he took some steaks from a plastic container and dropped them in the pan. The sizzle almost sounded like an explosion as the smoke poured toward the ceiling. Someone frantically turned on the vent over the range while Al tried to turn down the heat. Another crash. I heard Georgie's voice (ranger) from the fray, "Do you mean to have the oven on "steam"?" she was asking. "Oooooh nooooo!" the kitchen cried. Corey and I looked into the kitchen, then looked at each other. "Another game?" he suggested.

At 6:30, the menu board was filled out and fitted into its place above the range. It read: Welcome to Disaster Cafe. TONIGHT: Dinner is @ 19:00. -Roast chicken and veges, -silverbeet and mandarin salad, -steaks: well done only, -pizza: steamed to perfection.

Well, at least we had a real salad!

Karah