Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
So off I go, seeking advice. Or a dose of reality. Something.
I just know I can’t keep on going as we are or I’m going to break.
Gail isn’t by the fire, and a blonde stranger is cooking, along with the only human man that’s been dropped on the planet. I don’t know either of their names, but they both seem a pretty easy-going sort, with the guy tasting the warming pouch of shrimp tea and making an approving face. “Has a bit of a dashi taste to it, don’t you think?”
“What the heck is dashi?” asks the blonde.
“That stuff,” he says, taking another sip. “Kinda weird to have it instead of coffee, though.” He notices my arrival and picks up one of the bone cups. “You want some?”
I hold up a hand, declining, because I don’t mind a lot of things we eat on Not-Hoth but shrimp before breakfast is not one of them. “I’m actually looking for Gail. Have you seen her?”
“Someone ripped their pants and we’re making breakfast on our own,” the blonde says, and uses a ladle to point at Gail’s hut. “I’m just not sure what we’re supposed to be making.”
“Do we want to go savory or sweet?” the human guy asks. “And do we even have sweet?”
“What was dinner last night?” I ask, moving forward. I want to abandon them and find Gail because I need to cry my troubles out to someone, but leaving newbies in charge of food supplies feels like a recipe for disaster. “That fish stew stuff. Is there any left?”
“Yeah, in that big bowl over there. The covered one.” The blonde says, pointing. “I wasn’t sure what we were supposed to do with it.”
Nodding, I gesture at the bowl. “Take the leftovers, heat them up, and add some chopped up roots to fill it out again. If you’re making shrimp tea, too, you can de-shell the shrimp, use the shells in the tea and the shrimp themselves in the soup. That can be breakfast.”
“It can?” The blonde asks, aghast. “Really?”
“It’s fine,” the guy reassures her. “Lots of cultures back on Earth have fish for breakfast. It’s big in Japan.”
“Okay, sure.” The blonde sounds faint but she gives us a thumbs up. “Fish soup it is.”
“Now, when you say you want us to chop roots,” the man continues, giving us a serious look. “Do you want a brunoise? A julienne? Diced? Do we need to make a roux of some kind to add flavor?”
I stare. So does the blonde.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Diced, I guess? Cut them up so they cook down.”
“Yes, but how much do we want them to cook down?” He gives me a very serious stare. “What kind of texture are we going for?”
“Edible?” I say. “Seriously, make it edible and no one will care. If they complain, they can make their own food.” I thumb a gesture back at Gail’s place. “I’m gonna go now. Are you guys good?”
The blonde gives me a bright smile and touches the guy’s arm when he looks like he’s going to protest. “We’ll make it work. Thanks for the help.”
The human guy turns away and eyes the scatter of pots around the morning fire. “Let’s find the salt. If it’s what we had last night, it needs salting, badly.”
Ouch. Poor Daisy. She tries so hard, taking as many cooking rounds as she can a week because she’s determined to learn. Dinner wasn’t great last night, but it was warm and I didn’t have to cook it, so I was fine with it. I make a mental note to find her and tell her how much I enjoyed the meal. I don’t want her to be discouraged in her efforts.
Gail’s hut doesn’t have smoke coming out of the smoke hole, and I hesitate before shaking the bone wind chime at the door, because it’s early. I don’t want to wake anyone.
“Come in,” Gail calls out.
I duck inside, moving the weighted door flap to one side as I enter. The interior of the hut is neat and cozy, and unlike my hut, Gail’s always seems like everything in its perfect spot and nothing is out of place. Fresh herbs hang in bunches from the ceiling, drying and lending their perfume to the air. The hut is empty, too, except for Gail, who sits near the silent hearth. She has a basket full of what looks like laundry in front of her, sorting pieces of clothing into two different piles.
“This a bad time?” I ask.
She shakes her head, and I notice she has pretty beaded earrings in, long and dangly. Those must be a present from Vaza, who is always showering gifts on his “lovely mate.” Gail told me once that she mentioned that she liked jewelry to him once and he’s given her delicate trinkets and hand-made baubles ever since. The dangling earrings against her graceful neck and shorn skull make her look delicate and elegant despite her surroundings. “I’m just going through laundry. If you’re looking for Vaza or Z’hren, they went hunting together. I swear, those two.” She makes a face and sets the tunic in her hands in her lap. “You want to hear what they did now?”