By Alexa Thomson
She got here. She observed. She burnt the toast. a tender lady with a stellar urban profession yet an expanding dissatisfaction with lifestyles, Alexa applies for the placement of prepare dinner with a personal corporation which organises Antarctic operations. Armed with an previous cookbook, she makes an attempt to create three-course nutrition without electrical energy or operating water and struggles to defrost meat within the coldest position in the world. existence in a skinny nylon tent within the corporation of scientists, explorers and eccentrics quickly starts off to tackle awesome dimensions. As 75-mile-an-hour winds blow and tensions upward push, friendships - and love - are cast during this frozen neighbourhood. Alexa Thomson has been an online dressmaker for an funding financial institution and a author for Salon.com. She divides her time among Sydney and San Francisco
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Additional resources for Antarctica on a Plate
If the weather is good to go today, we will fly in a few hours’ time. I still need to pick up vital kitchen equipment: the oven, pots, pans, tea towels, plates, cutlery, spatulas… and we need to take a look at the food order that is waiting in storage. Gerald is our contact while we are here and he is impressive. He heads a shipping company and he fields all our requests with remarkable aplomb. I am quickly soothed by his capable nature. His mobile phone seems to ring every two seconds and he switches from German to Dutch to Afrikaans to English with the ease of a musician changing key.
I’m dressed. I yank open the fly and shriek with fright at the blast of frigid air that stings my cheeks. Christ it’s cold. I wriggle out of the tent feet first and scarcely look at the world around me, so desperate am I to get to the cook tent 100 metres away and to my position behind the MSRs. I skid to the door, yank it open and almost fall headfirst inside. ’ Most people are up. ’ I trill with attempted nonchalance. ’ Everyone looks at me as if I’m certifiable. Most of them have eaten and are enjoying a last cup of tea or coffee before Liv, Ann and Severin head south.
The sounds I focus on are the scraping of my clothes as I walk on the mottled ice and the whisper of wind in my ears. If I walk far enough away from the plane there are no sounds at all, just a gradual obliteration of noise and thought. It’s a vast, empty nothing that I sense could swallow me in its void. I bring my hands up to my face and push on my cheeks with my gloves. I splay my fingers over my eyes and look through the cracks at the world around me. The glare burns my retinas, even through my ski goggles.