"I'm sorry. Really."

She watched Dr. Snyder's face fall and wished for the hundredth time she'd skipped lunch. Or at least taken it back to her office. Dr. Snyder was the fifth person to approach her since she'd sat down, asking whether there was going to be any Earth-bound gate travel allowed for the holidays. All of them had been on the leave rotation and all of them had compelling reasons to be home. Therese Snyder's father was ill and had been expecting her home for a visit. Lieutenant Hapford's daughter was having her first Christmas. The other three…and the dozens more who hadn't come to her, all had someone waiting for them on the other end of the wormhole. It would be so simple just to dial the gate.

Except she couldn't. Being homesick…wanting to be with family and friends…all important enough reasons to go home; but not important enough to lose them for the three-plus weeks it would take to travel home from Milky Way. Getting to Earth was the easy part. Getting home…not so much. The power level of Earth's ZPM was tenuous at best. Should the Ancient Chair Platform ever be called into duty, they would need every ounce of energy the Ancient power source had to offer. It couldn't be used frivolously to shuffle people back to Pegasus after a three day trip home. It just wasn't worth it.

Maybe she ought to send out a memo, explaining the policy one more time. People had become so accustomed to using the bridge it wouldn't hurt to remind everyone that the quick return from Milky Way was entirely too taxing on Earth's systems.

At the very least it might forestall anyone else approaching her while she was trying to eat. Or at least trying to look like she was eating. Only the dish of blue Jell-O sat empty in front of her.

"Ma'am?"

Sam groaned inwardly. Not another one.

"Can I help you?" She tried not to say it through gritted teeth and only half-succeeded. Looking up she saw the NCO in charge of the kitchen fidgeting slightly next to the table. She must have sounded more annoyed than she thought. She tried to recall the man's name but she couldn't and his white kitchen coat was hiding his name tag beneath. Failing in all efforts to address him by name, she forced herself to smile instead. The man's nervousness seemed to vanish.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your lunch…," he began. Sam waved away his apology. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to speak to you about the potatoes."

Sam blinked at him, her brain trying to catch up to the conversation. She'd been expecting another query about holiday leave. Potatoes had been the farthest thing from her mind.

"Potatoes," she repeated. "What about them."

He must have taken her response as an invitation to sit, because he pulled out the chair across from her and sank wearily into it before leaning across on his elbows as if to share something in great confidence. For a moment Sam felt like a priest in the confessional.

"I know I'm by-passing channels, Colonel. But I've tried more times than I can remember to get Major Harrison to listen, and, with all due respect, Ma'am…he just doesn't seem to understand."

"Understand what, Sergeant?" Normally she would have sent the man through the proper channels, but there was an urgency to his concern that she felt warranted her attention.

They're the wrong ones," he told her in a low voice. The solemn look on his face suggested that this was a problem right up there with a full-scale Wraith invasion. Obviously she was still missing something.

"The wrong ones…?" she asked, hoping for further illumination. He nodded, clearly glad to see that she understood. Which, of course, she didn't.

"Every month it's the same," he went on. "I put in a requisition for russets…they send me Yukon Golds."

Something vague tickled at the back of her mind, but she was trying too hard to fathom the purpose of this conversation to give it any attention. "I'm not sure I'm following you," she admitted. "Is that a problem?"

From the reaction on his face, it obviously was.

"We've got fry-eaters here, Ma'am. I can't make enough of them. That Ronan Dex fellow alone can eat about five pounds-worth in one sitting. And you need russets for that. They hold their shape better. Yukon Golds…well…they're good for mashed—which I've noticed you prefer yourself—but you try to fry those puppies up and you've got nothing but a mess on your hands. I haven't been able to make a decent batch of french fries in months. And I think it's beginning to have an effect on morale."

If it hadn't been for the earnestness on the man's face, she would have laughed out loud. As it was, she had to cough to smother a slight chuckle. That vague sense of déjà vu that had been nagging at the back of her mind had suddenly become quite clear. She could practically hear Jack's laughter all the way from the Milky Way.

Doing her best to maintain the same level of concern as the man across the table, she squelched another smile and nodded in what she hoped looked like understanding.

"I'll look into it, Sergeant. And in the meantime, I think mashed potatoes are a reasonable substitute, especially now. People around here could use a little comfort food, all things considered."

Appreciation and, if she had to identify it, a sense of renewed duty brightened the man's face.

"Thank you, Colonel. I knew I could count on you."

He stood up and with a nod, headed back toward the kitchen.

Which was a good thing, really, because there was that stinging sensation in her eyes again, accompanied by a strange, twisting ache in her heart. It nearly took her breath away.

Who knew mashed potatoes could inflict such homesickness.

Or that potatoes were a command decision. Maybe the only one she'd gotten right all day.

Hoping no one had seen, she slid from her chair and walked with purpose to the nearest transporter station, seeking the shortest possible route to her office and whatever refuge it might provide.