The Vision
In an eight-by-twelve cooking trailer, three other students and I have our work cut out for us. We look at what’s on the counter. Eight packages of rib-eye steak, four loaves of bread, six heads of iceberg lettuce, a handful of vegetables to chop. Butter, herbs, two sets of knives. Three stovetop burners that work, a few feet of counter space, and no oven to feed twenty-nine hungry college kids, two TAs, one professor.
My friends on other dialogues send pictures of long tables with bread and oil, cheese and pasta. We do it a little differently here. Each day, a different group of four or five students is tasked with preparing the day’s dinner.
The plan: a salad bar, complete with toppings, dressings, and three types of protein. The instructions: don’t set any fires, don’t make anyone sick. And, hopefully, get a bit of earnest praise from the group. Emma, our TA, jokes about an official pyramid ranking of dinners cooked by students. But for us, it’s serious.
On the Hunt
Yesterday we stood in an Icelandic grocery store with an empty shopping cart. I seldom cook full meals for myself, let alone for a few dozen people at a campsite. We had to keep in mind allergens, portions, and preferences for all thirty-plus of us. Thankfully, my groupmates were up for the challenge. As soon as someone floated the idea of a salad bar and someone else said they cook a mean steak, the ball was rolling.
It’s a fine line to walk between plenty and too much. None of us were used to cooking in these proportions, so we asked for help estimating how many peppers, mushrooms, steaks would feed the group. Luckily, the folks in charge had done this many times before and were more than happy to monitor the cart levels.
We shop for a few days at a time. Mal, our professor, is on his thirteenth Dialogue trip to Iceland. Amidst a changing itinerary, he says, “Half the battle is just knowing where the grocery stores are.”
When you’re interested in food systems, the grocery store is like a museum. I couldn’t help but wander from the group to check out which kinds of proteins are cheap here (fish, lamb, eggs) and which produce is local. What do Icelanders snack on? Where does it come from? And why don’t they make paprika Pringles in the States?
Iceland is a tough place to farm—and yet it farms. While the majority of the country has hardly any topsoil to grow in, farmers have found (and made full use of) richer soils in deep glacial valleys. Iceland produces almost half of the fruits and vegetables it consumes and almost 100% of its meat, eggs, and dairy. The majority of domestic produce is grown in geothermal-heated greenhouses, with the exception of hardy potatoes. New vertical-farming and aquaponic technology has allowed it to grow more of its own food in recent years. We grabbed lettuce, peppers, mushrooms, cucumber, carrots, garlic, and onion.
The country is well-known for its sheep, both for wool and meat, with a shepherding tradition dating back to the country’s founding in 800 A.C.E. As we tour the countryside we’ve seen herds of sheep, cows, and horses grazing tough grass. At least some of them ended up below eye-level in the freezer aisle. We’d mostly need steak, with some fish for pescatarians and tofu for vegetarians.
With almost six full shopping carts, we exited through automatic doors and the grocery store breathed a sigh of relief.
Chop, Chop!
With more ingredients than I’d seen in a lifetime, we get to work. It felt just like The Food Network—the time limit, the pressure. Maggie on steak, Cassandra and Oli on vegetables, me on garlic bread. This is the fun part. We play Icelandic music because we want something new and 90’s hits because we want something we know the words to. We dance and sing and chop and sizzle.
Until: a burst of flame, then nothing. The stove won’t light. Now it really felt like reality TV.
Again, we’re lucky to have people around who have been doing this for years. After just a few minutes of panic, Chris—another TA—figures out that the gas ran out. He quickly comes up with a backup tank from the hostel nearby and screws it onto the trailer. Another sigh of relief.
Mal puts a lot of trust in each cooking group. According to him, there haven’t been many real meal disasters in his numerous trips. Sometimes people are difficult to work with, sometimes there’s not enough for everyone, sometimes it takes too long. The worst that’s happened is a minor allergic reaction. It doesn’t always taste good, but the students are usually hungry enough by the time it’s ready that a lot gets eaten anyway.
Chris went on the trip as an undergraduate student and TA’d one trip before this one. He recounts the joys of cooking for a big group—how great it feels when you put out a big meal that people are excited to eat. How much fun it is to put your heart and soul on the plate. Sure, we could buy a cartful of canned soup, but where’s the fun in that? It’s a privilege to provide sustenance for our colleagues and friends. We turn mouths to feed into guests of honor.
Oli flips the last few pieces of stovetop garlic bread as we bring out giant bowls of toppings. For a little flair, we play overly-dramatic Viking battle music, giggling and rearranging the table for the best photo. It’s time to eat.
The Test
How often do you get the chance to prepare something you’re proud of for people you care about? We watch carefully to see the first few bites; we make sure there’s steak left for Mal. It seems like approval is widespread. It’s not a burden to care for each other.
As always, the best part of a meal is the gathering. It’s a special feeling to have crafted the base upon which people gather and chat, review the day, joke and laugh together. This has been a constant throughout the trip; gathering for meals without phones or T.V. facilitates hearty conversations. We play games and ask each other how we feel.
I smile on my folding camping chair, feasting on my own creation. Our cooking group can be proud of our meal today—and begin planning the next one.
