In the fairy tales (the ones Sam and Jack knew; Dr. Jackson's journals contained a fascinating digression on how once the genie had once been able to offer unlimited wishes) you got to ask for three things. Jonas thinks now that he knows what he wants. Small things, since he'd decided the ability to go back in time was out of bounds.
They ran out of food two days before their stolen tel'tak crashed into an Earth-like planet and they scavenged on roots. Jonas supposes that MREs would be the sensible thing to ask for: light and nutritious. But this is his fantasy, and he has to agree with the SG-1 of years ago that they really don't taste very good. He had brief thoughts of an entire grocery store, fresh fruit and bags of chocolate chips, before he settles on canned soup. It wouldn't bruise in their packs, wouldn't melt in the heat. Heavy, sure, but it had flavour. It lasted. They could stockpile it somewhere safe, find a little red wagon and tote it along with them. He didn't know. Something, and better than nothing.
Aspirin is bitter and the second one. When Kianna died he had visions of Janet Fraiser and her storeroom of medical supplies and the accumulated knowledge of a lifetime of study and practice, but that, he has decided, is like wishing his GDO hadn't been destroyed: wishing for more wishes, didn't count. There was no single cure-all for them. If they were so seriously hurt that morphine could do anything, they were dead. Bandages and splints, they could improvise. No, what he missed were little white pills that just made things hurt less, took care of the little nagging problems, headaches and bruises and stiffness from being rained on while sleeping on a rocky forest floor. Made it a little easier to fight and run and run some more.
His third one is kind of cheating on two counts. Between him and the quiet Andari chemist, they can make this one on a small scale, and as a wish it's asking a bit much. But. One of the best days on Earth was when Jack O'Neill had handed him a key and told him to grab a sergeant and come back from munitions with eight grenades and a small crate of C4. Then, it was the small gesture of trust and maybe even authority; now, it's the munitions stockroom. There is so much they could do with that many explosives.
He's always been able to look on the bright side. They are hiding with their backs to a wall, listening to enemy fire draw closer, and it is so much more pleasant to fantasize about tomato soup (and maybe crackers?) than think what everybody else is thinking: we are so fucked.