By Jason C. Anthony
Winner of an Andre Simon food and drinks e-book Award - distinctive Commendation
Finalist for a ForeWord e-book of the yr Award
Antarctica, the final position on the earth, isn't really recognized for its food. but it really is recognized for tales of heroic expeditions within which starvation was once the single spice all people carried. on the sunrise of Antarctic delicacies, chefs improvised below unimaginable hardships, castaways ate seal blubber and penguin breasts whereas fantasizing approximately illustrious feasts, and males looking the South Pole stretched their rations to the verge of collapse. this day, Antarctica's kitchens nonetheless stay up for provisions on the some distance finish of the planet's longest offer chain. clinical study stations serve up cafeteria fare that frequently deals extra sustenance than variety. Jason C. Anthony, a veteran of 8 seasons within the U.S. Antarctic software, bargains a unprecedented workaday examine the significance of foodstuff in Antarctic historical past and culture.
Anthony's journey of Antarctic delicacies takes us from hoosh (a porridge of meat, fats, and melted snow, usually thickened with beaten biscuit) and the scurvy-ridden expeditions of Shackleton and Scott in the course of the 20th century to his personal preplanned 300 foodstuff (plus snacks) for a two-person camp within the Transantarctic Mountains. The tales in Hoosh are associated by way of the ingenuity, sturdy humor, and indifference to gruel that make Anthony's story as unique because it is enlightening
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Extra resources for Hoosh : roast penguin, scurvy day, and other stories of Antarctic cuisine
If the biscuits were underdone, however, it meant at least thirty bright spots in the coming month. . Then came the question of a fair division. Even if the biscuits were whole they might differ slightly in size. If a division were made by the server according to his own ideas, although he might be scrupulously fair, not only he himself but all the others would feel continually that the portions were not, in fact could not be, equal. They developed a three-day work cycle: cook, messman, and day off.
For the first two months they had no chimney, fearing that it would undermine the roof. Thus the cave became a smokehouse and their lungs filled up with the smitch of volatilized oils “so that we were no cleaner within than we were outside,” said Priestley.
There was no need to deprive the Elephant Islanders of more, as after a month the men of the James Caird would either be drowned, blown past South Georgia into certain death in the wide South Atlantic, or be safe and warm for the first time in seven months. Frank Worsley’s navigation skills somehow reckoned them accurately toward the small island. Waves broke over the Caird constantly, wetting the men day and night. Time ticked by, measured not in sleep (which they rarely got in their sodden sleeping bags laid across angular ballast stones) nor in the passage of the sun (which hid behind clouds), but in the meals they somehow made aboard their battered little cork.