I truly believed that the most colourful place in all of Antarctica was my kitchen. Between the desert of snow and the metallic internment of our research station, there was nothing as green as my sautéed spinach, or red as my plum pies. But I knew the true beauty of colour was in movement, and when I think of my kitchen, I hear the fencing of utensils, the shifting famines and bounties of produce, and the constant chorus of my repairs. My kitchen is the most colourful, because it feels the most alive.

When I told this to my family last winter, I realised I had never shared the thought with anyone here. Because every year when I step on to the ice, my apron becomes my skin, my words become my cooking, and the days run backward to when I will see them again.

* * *

Meal times in the moss-coloured mess hall were the scientists’ escape from the regimen and repetition of their research, so of course they sat in the same seats every day. But it only started in Director Schuyler’s first year, when he set up a work station at his table, replete with binders and rock samples. This tremor rippled for years, but the terrain became clear – the less you were eating, the harder you must be working. An intern fainted last year and the Director gave them a promotion.

When I first met the Director, I addressed him like I practiced – “Welcome and congratulations, Director Shweeler”. I later learned it was pronounced Skyler, but he didn’t need to correct me; he wore his eyes like red pens, and the more they narrowed, the more wrong you knew you were.

“I’ve already reviewed the meal budget,” he replied, “Assuming we are in Antarctica and not Paris, I don’t expect we need multiple types of cheese, do you?”

Every time I unpack the single box of cheddar from the monthly cargo, I think about what I could have possibly said.

* * *

“Director Skyler,” I waved my voice through the crack of his frosted glass door like a white flag, “May I come in?”

“If you made the appointment, why wouldn’t you?” he replied. Talking to him felt like being forced to cook a dish that no one would eat. I pushed against the thick door, summoning my entire weight.

As I waddled into his office, I could feel my rehearsed sentences gargling in my throat.

He leaned back in his chair, and the audience of plaques and certificates gathered behind him with blank stares.

“I wanted to discuss my leave request,” I began, “My rejection, I mean. Well, yours. Of mine”

“Interesting,” his eyes pinched, “I thought I made the importance of the Thwaites glacier mission clear. Everyone’s staying the winter.”

He pointed his finger at me like a gun, “But why are you the only one to complain?”.

“No uh” I stammered. “It’s just that, staying over winter, I’ll miss my daughter’s graduation”.

“That’s really awful, I’m sorry,” his thick brows pressed on his eyes like wet cement, “But from one father to another, trust me – they’ll survive without you”. He joined his hands, forming a full stop.

My stomach body seized in agony, but I simply pursed my lips in reply, walked out of his office, and broke into a run. I missed the sink of the bathroom by two steps, as my lunch cannonballed on to the floor.

I stared at my tattered, vomit-covered kitchen shoes. May as well get it all out, I thought, and freed the rest of my cooking.

* * *

The assembly hall for the all-staff meeting was dressed with boiling red curtains. I entered with all my luggage, and marched towards the stage to the percussion of ladles, saucepans, and woks strapped to my back.

Waves of faces greeted me, breaking into a foam of gasps and whispers. Some of them splashed subtle nods and subdued fist raises. A few clasped their hands to their mouths in prayer.

The Director stood on the stage, his eyes expanding like pools of spilled ink.

“Sit down,” he commanded, widening his stance like a barricade, but I kept my pace, “Martin!”.

I clanked on to the stage, my utensils speaking louder than words.

I looked at the crowd, drinking the silence as I remembered their smiles and how every empty plate handed to me felt like a birthday card. I needed to empty mine now.

“My daughter once asked me why I wanted to be a cook in Antarctica,” I began, “I told her that I was good at it, that I liked to see people fed and happy, that I loved all kinds of food, and also…”

I felt a lump in my throat, but one that didn’t make me run.

“Also, the money was good, so even though I would miss her every day, I could put her in a good school”. I took a breath and let my tears fall where they may.

“But now, any extra day away feels like a waste. Thanks for being kind to me. Good luck on the mission, and goodbye”.

I had never been applauded for anything in my life. I can see why people chase it.

* * *

I sat in the helicopter with the empty food crates from my kitchen, but I felt full.

As we broke through the mist, I looked out and saw a rainbow, painted across the entire canvas of ice.

“Fine, you win,” I laughed.

I remembered my first arrival on a morning that looked like twilight, and not knowing how I could survive a week, let alone ten years. Just one meal at a time, I told myself. You’re not here to save the world, you’re just here to feed it. But from here, the sea married the sky and the sugar-white land dissolved into the clouds, and I realised for the first time that they were one and the same.