She keeps the compress against her face with her good arms as she goes, snorting quietly. "Well, we can agree on the fuckin' cleaning part being a bitch."
Can't relate to the rest, but if he's enjoying himself and they're getting decent food out of it, it's not like she's complaining. May as well enjoy it while she can.
"It's just a beef broth and some random veggies," North says with a shrug. "I have no idea what the hell I'm doing, but I think Mom made a soup sorta like this sometimes. Smells good, anyway."
He fixes South a bowl first, then himself. His description of his dish was pretty accurate--- beef stock, plus onions, carrots, and celery that seem to have been sauteed first, chopped up potatoes, garlic, beans, tomatoes, corn, green beans, and mushrooms. He clearly has a vague idea of what he's doing, at least. There even appears to be some herb bits floating around in there. His vegetable cutting is rough, and there's definitely way more bits of thyme and rosemary stem than one might like, but it seems like a downright okay soup.
"Приятного аппетита," he remarks--- an old colony phrase. His actual Russian-speaking abilities are somewhat limited. "Lemme know what you think."
Never really gets less odd, thinking about home. Always been less likely to bring it up than he is, but has no real reason to stop him, either. One of them should probably be keeping the memory alive, right? Even if she doesn't know how to feel about the place, the past, sometimes.
He might not be making it onto Galactic Masterchef, but he's clearly figuring shit out, and it's not like it's not— nice, seeing him in this more normal light. (He's better suited for this than her. He's probably always been better suited for this, for life after the military, than her. Anyone could've told you that.)
"S'good," she says, muffled around a mouthful, because she's never had manners and she's sure not starting now. Elbows on the table and everything, one still holding the compress to her face and the other the spoon. "Could not fuckin' tell you if it's anything like whatever you're thinking of from Mom but I never remember that shit the same anyway, so. Whatever. It's good. Downright fuckin' edible."
"Downright fuckin' edible," North echoes in agreement. "I can live with that. I'm gonna be real with you, South, I'm just glad to have real vegetables to eat. Every time I ate an MRE, a part of my soul died."
"God, right? The shit on the ship was, like, fine, or whatever," stuff that was technically actual food but had been preserved to hell and back to get it safe for long-term storage in space travel, always at least a little bland, "but ugh. Last couple years. I never wanna see another MRE again in my life."
She's not really that fussy but damn, she'd like her food to at least taste decent. All of this is a real upgrade.
"I'll help uh—" vague spinning hand gesture as she chews and finds words, "finish patching up the shit around the planting area later this week, I guess. Speaking of fuckin' vegetables."
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She keeps the compress against her face with her good arms as she goes, snorting quietly. "Well, we can agree on the fuckin' cleaning part being a bitch."
Can't relate to the rest, but if he's enjoying himself and they're getting decent food out of it, it's not like she's complaining. May as well enjoy it while she can.
"What's the soup anyway?"
no subject
He fixes South a bowl first, then himself. His description of his dish was pretty accurate--- beef stock, plus onions, carrots, and celery that seem to have been sauteed first, chopped up potatoes, garlic, beans, tomatoes, corn, green beans, and mushrooms. He clearly has a vague idea of what he's doing, at least. There even appears to be some herb bits floating around in there. His vegetable cutting is rough, and there's definitely way more bits of thyme and rosemary stem than one might like, but it seems like a downright okay soup.
"Приятного аппетита," he remarks--- an old colony phrase. His actual Russian-speaking abilities are somewhat limited. "Lemme know what you think."
no subject
Never really gets less odd, thinking about home. Always been less likely to bring it up than he is, but has no real reason to stop him, either. One of them should probably be keeping the memory alive, right? Even if she doesn't know how to feel about the place, the past, sometimes.
He might not be making it onto Galactic Masterchef, but he's clearly figuring shit out, and it's not like it's not— nice, seeing him in this more normal light. (He's better suited for this than her. He's probably always been better suited for this, for life after the military, than her. Anyone could've told you that.)
"S'good," she says, muffled around a mouthful, because she's never had manners and she's sure not starting now. Elbows on the table and everything, one still holding the compress to her face and the other the spoon. "Could not fuckin' tell you if it's anything like whatever you're thinking of from Mom but I never remember that shit the same anyway, so. Whatever. It's good. Downright fuckin' edible."
Pretty high praise off her, really.
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"God, right? The shit on the ship was, like, fine, or whatever," stuff that was technically actual food but had been preserved to hell and back to get it safe for long-term storage in space travel, always at least a little bland, "but ugh. Last couple years. I never wanna see another MRE again in my life."
She's not really that fussy but damn, she'd like her food to at least taste decent. All of this is a real upgrade.
"I'll help uh—" vague spinning hand gesture as she chews and finds words, "finish patching up the shit around the planting area later this week, I guess. Speaking of fuckin' vegetables."