Finding my place at Alaska’s table
House parties have always been an awkward endeavor for me, but this one was different. It was years ago and I was living in Kotzebue when a friend of a friend invited me to a party that started off just as they always do—brutal small talk and a healthy dose of background lingering. I would have never guessed, though, that the party’s icebreaker would be a frozen block of whale meat.
Muktuk was the thing that made me a part of the group that night—I got to know people who would end up becoming my friends, and they got to know me. We stood around the kitchen island dipping strips of the black and pink meat into seal oil and soy sauce as we shared cans of cheap (by Kotzebue standards) beer.
Living in Alaska has taught me what it means to be adaptable and self-reliant—and just how life-changing sharing food can be.
Emily Mesner stands with the first halibut she caught in Prince William Sound, near Cordova, on July 21, 2018
Meals like this have connected me to the places I’ve lived and the people I’ve met during my first decade in Alaska. From Kotzebue and Cordova to life back on the road system in Denali and Anchorage, my knowledge of Alaska grew and so did my connection to food.
When money was tight during my years of seasonal internships, I learned to see the beauty in the simplest of foods—cans of beans, half-empty liquor bottles, and bags of rice, things gifted by staff who had excess.
Slowly, and as my roots deepened, I began to have excess, too, and I loved being able to share it. I’ve built community through the plates I’ve shared because of the abundance of this land and the eagerness that Alaskans have to offer seats at the table.
Cait was one of my roommates in Kotzebue. We shared pizza from Little Louie’s after trips in the backcountry, and she was the one who introduced me to fireweed, teaching me how to make “fireweed yum-yum,” her take on fireweed jelly that she would make because the stores in town were often out of pectin. When I moved to Anchorage in 2020, I had a hard time adjusting to life in a new city. My circle was small and I missed being in rural Alaska, but I was able to prioritize learning new skills because of the urban resources that Anchorage offered. I bought new canning equipment and read lots of articles about the best way to make jams and jellies.
I returned to Kotzebue in the fall of 2019, working for the National Park Service as an environmental education and media intern—I couldn’t wait to travel to neighboring villages and sink back into Arctic life. The start of 2020 was wonderful. I moved into a cozy studio duplex that was situated in a familial cluster of NPS housing. It was a minute walk to Front Street, which gave me dazzling views of Kotzebue Sound and the nearby Igichuk Hills. This view was one of the only things that grounded me when the pandemic seeped north. As we all began to isolate and wait out the unknown, suddenly my cozy studio began to suffocate me.
Deanna moved to Kotzebue during this time and we quickly became friends. Where everyone else had family and partners in their inner circle, we had each other and pierogies. Experimenting with different doughs and fillings, we sat around her kitchen table shaping each one by hand, covering ourselves in flour, sharing our dreams and laughter.
On Alaska’s coast, I’ve eaten fermented seal flipper, sweet and sour beluga, tanner crab, and herring roe. I’ve traded photography for moose meat, slurped caribou stew with mushers, and celebrated with friends over grilled oysters and seared scallops. Here, we live by the season, and we yearn for each season’s mouthwatering delights.
My life and palate are infinitely richer because of these experiences. They’ve taught me the power of reciprocity, the beauty in simplicity, and the freedom in acceptance.
In Alaska, geographical limitations teach one to let go of what’s unavailable and instead focus on what’s fresh and sustainable. We take pride in the way we interact with our food system. Here, delicious food is earned—whether by the labor and skills it takes to harvest it, or by the effort and cost it takes to bring it here.
Living in Alaska has taught me what it means to be adaptable and self-reliant—and just how life-changing sharing food can be. It’s more than the thing that sustains us. It’s the thread that connects us, a currency that fuels us, and how we show care.
The recipes below tell a story of becoming Alaskan the way it happens most often—through shared harvests, traded portions, and crowded kitchen islands.
