It’s been a while since I last posted here, and in that time I have started a writing group with a friend from work, gotten a pretty good jump on the next book in the Cartel series, and hopefully found my muse again. So, in that spirit, here’s a quick glance inside the mind of James and the kitchen on board the Diablo after a night of debauchery. Enjoy!
“Two months.” James muttered quietly to himself before shaking his head and stumbling through the galley doors, wincing when the auto lights bathed the space in an antiseptic sheen. “Two months of living on that printed, recycled shit. Fuck that noise.” Shading his eyes from the halo of the galley lights, he reached under the nearest counter and swung the refrigerator door open. He dropped to his haunches and peered inside, fumbling blindly past shrink wrap covered Cambros full of god knows what, thawing vac-pacs of ancient military style rations and crusted, half-filled condiment bottles until his fingers traced the outline of the two-pint sized container he’d come in looking for. “Mmm, there ya are. Come to Daddy.”
He pulled the container clear of the fridge and spun, nearly tripping over his own feet, toward the large, eight burner stove he’d had installed all those weeks ago. After steadying himself on the edge of the cooktop, he reached to the wall and lifted a brand-new pan from the hook rail, clanking it unceremoniously onto the closest burner. As he twisted the knob, a familiar clicking sound and the smell of natural gas was able to elicit a tiny smirk through his hangover induced haze. He peeled the lid off of the container next, the scent of cinnamon and anise mingled with the bright notes of basil and coriander permeating his nose as he carefully poured the chilled broth into the pan. One of his few memories from home that he found worth hanging on to was Mrs. Tran’s pho recipe from the noodle shop he’d spend a summer working at when he was younger. She had carefully shown him every step, from roasting the pork bones and vegetable cuttings, to the all-day simmer that brought out every last molecule of flavor to the finishing touches of the dry spices. This was the last of the real stuff, having spent the last two months in the back of the tiny freezer in his van-turned-spaceship, but today it was exactly what the doctor ordered.
Having inhaled a few breaths of that glorious vapor once the broth had come to a boil, he felt a tingle move down his neck, releasing stiff muscles and kicking his parched sweat glands into action. Partially reinvigorated, he reached above the counter to his left and pulled a package of instant ramen from the shelf, removing the wrapper and the included flavor pack with one swipe of his hand. The brick of egg noodles dropped into the roiling swirl of colors and heat, bobbing about the surface like an embattled lifeboat before finally succumbing to the heat and moisture, falling apart as he poked it with a fork. He swirled the noodles around the pan a few more times, fishing one out in the crook of the tines to test before reaching back into the fridge for the last few additions. A bottle of Huy Fong Siracha sauce, a shallow dish of an inky black syrup made from one of the local trees below that vaguely resembled hoisin, and finally a large, curiously round and pink egg. He turned the egg over in his fingers a few times, considering what its contents might bring to the dish, wondering if the creature that had lain it was anywhere close to a chicken. He tapped it on the flat of the counter and held it over the pan, pushing his thumbs through the shell on the bottom and letting the yolk and…egg-pink? fall into the broth below. He killed the burner and slid the pan onto the one adjacent as he covered the top, content to let it set for a moment as he decided if he was really up to attempting something as risky as eating in his current state.
