Chapter 1
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Chapter 2.1
The clock on Zeulla's bedside table insisted it was five in the morning.
She stared at it for several moments before looking toward the window again. The curtains had been drawn the night before, yet a pale glow still slipped around their edges, bathing the little room in a soft silver light. It looked much too bright for dawn, though she was quickly learning that Antarctica had little interest in keeping ordinary hours.
She pushed the curtains aside.
The sea beyond the station shimmered quietly beneath a sky that seemed unable to decide whether it belonged to morning or evening. Snow rested upon the hills as though no one had disturbed it in centuries. Even the wind appeared to move with patience.
She smiled.
"I suppose we'll both have to get used to each other."
After dressing warmly, she braided her hair and stepped into the corridor. The station was only beginning to stir. Somewhere the door closed gently. Boots echoed against the wooden floor. Someone laughed sleepily before disappearing into another hallway.
Then came the smell.
Coffee.
Fresh bread.
Butter warming in a pan.
She followed it without thinking.
The kitchen lights were already bright.
Merino stood at the largest counter with both hands resting on its polished surface while Henrik, the station's chef, searched through a thick notebook whose pages had curled from months of use. They looked less like cooks and more like two captains studying a weather chart before setting sail.
Henrik looked up first.
"Good morning."
"Good morning."
Merino nodded toward the coffee pot.
"Before you ask, yes."
"I wasn't going to ask."
"You were thinking about it."
She laughed.
"I probably was."
Henrik poured her a mug before returning to the notebook.
"I've written everything down," he said, sliding it across the counter.
Merino read without interruption.
There was enough flour to bake bread every day if each loaf was measured carefully, enough rice and pasta to carry the station comfortably through the remaining months, frozen fish and lamb stored neatly in the cold room, dried beans, powdered milk, oats, coffee enough to satisfy even the most devoted researcher, and shelves lined with jars of preserved vegetables prepared before winter had settled over the island. It was the spices that revealed how long the station had been waiting for its next shipment. Black pepper barely covered the bottom of its tin. Smoked paprika and oregano clung stubbornly to the sides of nearly empty jars. A little thyme remained, though not enough to be generous with it. One cinnamon stick rested alone inside its bottle, carefully returned to the centre as though someone had been reluctant to admit it was the last.
Merino closed the notebook.
Henrik watched him expectantly.
"I've disappointed you."
"No."
Henrik blinked.
"I was certain I had."
Merino rested the notebook on the counter.
"You've done exactly what you were supposed to do."
Henrik frowned slightly.
"You've stretched a year's provisions through nearly a year."
He tapped the page gently.
"That's a success."
A quiet breath escaped Henrik's lips.
"I thought you'd say there wasn't enough."
"There never is."
Merino smiled faintly.
"That's why people learn to cook."
Henrik laughed.
"I've been looking forward to meeting you."
"I've been looking forward to seeing your pantry."
"You've strange priorities."
"I've been told."
The two men bent over the notebook again.
Zeulla listened while pretending not to.
There was something pleasant about hearing cooks speak together. They discussed meals the way musicians might discuss harmony, never raising their voices, never defending their own ideas too fiercely. One suggested. The other adjusted. By the end of each conversation, neither recipe belonged entirely to either of them.
Merino drew several lines through the menu he had prepared before leaving Europe.
"No rosemary lamb."
Henrik nodded.
"No rosemary."
"We'll use thyme."
"A little."
"A little is enough."
He crossed out another dish.
"No cinnamon rolls."
Henrik sighed dramatically.
"There goes everyone's happiness."
"We'll save the cinnamon."
"For Christmas?"
Merino looked thoughtfully toward the small window overlooking the bay.
"Christmas deserves to smell like cinnamon."
Henrik smiled.
"I couldn't agree more."
Zeulla lowered her eyes into her coffee.
She suddenly understood something she had never considered before.
Cooking in Antarctica was not simply preparing meals.
It was planning for tomorrow while serving today.
Nothing could be wasted.
Not flour.
Not herbs.
Not even a single cinnamon stick.
The conversation drifted naturally toward bread schedules, freezer temperatures, and the order in which ingredients should be used before their quality declined. Merino listened more than he spoke, asking careful questions about the station's routines, the number of researchers expected for each meal, and the occasional visitors from neighboring stations.
Henrik answered each one patiently.
"Some days there are twenty-six."
"And other days?"
"Thirty."
"Visitors?"
He nodded.
"The weather decides."
Merino smiled.
"So we're cooking for Antarctica."
"More or less."
"I've cooked for worse customers."
Henrik raised an eyebrow.
"Worse than scientists?"
"They ask fewer questions."
The three of them laughed.
When the conversation finally paused, Zeulla noticed a narrow door standing slightly open near the back of the kitchen.
Warm air drifted quietly through the gap.
She tilted her head.
"What's in there?"
Henrik followed her gaze.
"Our pride."
She looked puzzled.
He opened the door.
A wave of gentle warmth rolled into the corridor.
Zeulla stepped inside almost cautiously.
Thank you for reading. Image is generated by chatGPT.
