The Big Bang Symphony: A Novel of Antarctica

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219 33 Mikala had lots of experience cooking for groups at Redwood Grove, but the South Pole galley was cramped and futuristic compared to the big, funky kitchen in the longhouse. Here all the pots and implements hung from steel racks, which in turn hung from the ceiling on chains. Dangling above Mikala’s head was every size and shape of pot, colander, ladle, sifter, beater, and spoon. She had the feeling it was very important that she reached for the correct vessel or implement, whereas at Redwood, one was admired for making do. She leaned against the butcher block countertop and waited for the meeting of volunteer kitchen hands to begin. Betty breezed in and assessed the help. She sighed heavily. Her entire workforce was out sick, and for the past week she’d had to work every shift herself. She’d given up on aprons. Her shirt was splattered with tomato sauce and her jeans looked like they had been dredged out of the scrap bucket. “All right, gang,” Betty began. “I know that half the station is out with this virus. But that doesn’t mean that the other half has to be made nearly as sick with the food they’re being served. Someone called this morning’s pancakes ‘wheat slabs.’ Okay? And whatever the crew cooked up last night—let’s be generous and call it a cornmeal-tofu-chickpea casserole—closely resembled what penguins feed their young.” “I liked it,” Mikala said. “I admire you, babe. But we all know where you came from. You were raised on groats and yak’s milk.” The radio on Betty’s back hip hissed and sputtered. Then a scratchy voice demanded, “Kitchen. Betty. Kitchen. Betty.” “Yeah,” Betty said, snatching the radio off her hip and speaking into the receiver. “Can you spare anyone?” Barney, the station manager asked. “We have a situation over in the shop.” Betty dropped her hand holding the radio as she said, “Shit.” Then back into the receiver, “Not really.” “How many you got there?” “Four. And we have to make lunch for a couple hundred people.” “Send two.” Betty clicked off her radio and jammed it back onto her belt. “Mikala, Jeffrey, you two stay and help me.” She looked at the other two volunteers and jerked her head toward the door. “Barney wants you in the shop.” They scuttled away, seeming glad to escape Betty’s frazzle. She did look as though she were about to go toast, an Antarctic term for someone who has been working way too many hours for far too many weeks. She was having trouble giving a shit. She rubbed her brow as the radio on her back hip continued to hiss and sputter. “Lunch,” Betty said and paused as if she were waiting for the true meaning of the word to sink in with her helpers. “We’re not going to get fancy, okay? I’m suggesting a hearty soup and a variety of sandwiches. But the thing is, the food has to look and, well, be appetizing, okay? That means, Jeffrey, that when you spread peanut butter on the bread, just for an example, spread it evenly and only up to the edges of the bread. Got it?” “Why are you singling me out?” Betty stared at Jeffrey as if the answer to that question was obvious. “You’d think the sheer number of hours I’ve volunteered in this hellhole of a kitchen would get me a little gratitude,” he whispered to Mikala when Betty moved off to start the soup. 220 “Come on. You and I aren’t exactly the gourmet types, that’s all.” “And the South Pole is not exactly Paris.” Mikala laid out as many pieces of bread as would fit on the counter. She pushed the mega-sized jar of peanut butter toward Jeffrey. “Hey.” Betty was back, leaning against the butcher block and folding her arms. She looked so tired with those dark circles under her eyes, and the way she propped herself against the sideboard, as if she couldn’t quite stand on her own. “I just found a few #10 cans of mushroom soup.” “What about your little pep talk?” Jeffrey said. “I thought we were going to make a special lunch.” Betty flapped a dismissing hand at him. “Good,” Mikala said. “You need a rest. Let them eat canned soup.” “So. How...