Do not open until Thanksgiving!
It wasn't Thanksgiving yet, but Mark pried the top of the container off, anyway, so that he could inventory the contents.
His crewmates, or their families, at least, apparently had some fucking strange ideas about what made a good Thanksgiving dinner. Black beans, packed in… oil? The fuck was that about? He removed the first container and looked at it for a moment, turning it over in his hands, as a possibility started to flit around, it was kind of a crazy idea, but...
He glanced around the Hab, wondering if there could possibly be enough farmable floor space to… No, he decided. Probably not. But he set the package aside, knowing damned well that he was going to wind up seeing whether those beans would germinate, anyway.
The next thing his hand touched was, goddamn it, Dad, a can of cream-of-mushroom soup. It was packed into a casserole dish, along with an assortment of other cans; condensed milk, cranberries, green beans, and a large orange can with a pumpkin on the label. Flight Supplies had even helpfully included a can opener.
Well, great. The green beans were useless to him, sliced and pre-cooked, and canned in salty water. And frankly, he didn't consider them edible, anyway.
Mark set the cans on the lab table, giving the middle finger to the soup, too, not able to stop himself from grinning. He dug back into the box.
The next thing he pulled out was a container of dehydrated dressing for the turkey, plus the turkey itself. It was some sort of shelf-stable turkey breast, which appeared to have been shipped to Mars in an already-cooked, vacuum-packed state.
NASA nannies, he sighed. Don't even trust us to cook a fucking turkey.
A jar of something reddish-purple, with a German label, measuring spoons, a small aluminum… rolling pin? What the hell was he supposed to use that for? A collection of shallow baking dishes, nested together. That would be useful, at least. Just the thing for starting seedlings, he thought.
There was a rather shocking quantity of vacuum-sealed butter, shelf-stabilized cream, and milk packets, here, too. They were all packed together, sealed in a bag and stored inside of a mixing bowl. Nice-sized, too. He'd be using it to mix up something rather large, apparently, though he couldn't imagine what. Flour and shortening were bagged, together inside a pie dish, along with what looked like a collection of spices, salt and sugar. Baking soda, too. That would probably come in handy, he thought. He could use it for a quick PH soil test, so that he wouldn't accidentally kill whatever he was trying to propagate.
Field peas came next, from the nearly-empty pressure cargo container; a large package of flash-dried, but possibly still-viable peas in their pods. Commander Lewis, he thought. She'd mentioned something about them once, over dinner in the Rec. Now, his plan was starting to come together a little more. The field peas would make good nitrogen, for cultivated Martian soil, wouldn't they? Which the black beans would need, if he were to... Not very many calories, though, and he wouldn't have enough water, anyway, but… it was still something to think about.
One more package, the largest in the box, was laid out along the bottom.
Potatoes. Actual, non-frozen, non-mulched, Idaho russets. Twelve of them. Holy shit.
Oh my god, he thought, which one of you guys ordered the mashed potatoes? You might have just saved my fucking life.
Chicago
Mindy sat down on Mark Watney's bed, and had to shake her head a little bit at the absurdity of it all.
Caroline was like a force of nature, and she was bound and determined that she and Richard would play an active role in the baby's life. Which apparently, included strong-arming Mindy into visiting with them over Thanksgiving.
Why she had ever agreed to this in the first place, she wasn't quite sure. But after the funeral, Caroline had invited her to Chicago to visit with them for the holiday weekend. She and Richard weren't feeling up to driving to Sandusky for the annual family gathering, but instead wanted to spend time with her. A virtual stranger.
Um, okay.
Mark, your parents are really weird, you know that, right?
Rather than hurt Caroline's feelings, Mindy had given in and agreed. Even though the grandchild in question wouldn't actually be making an appearance for five more months, they might as well get to know each other.
It was in pretty strong contrast to her own mother. One of these days, she'd have to sit down with her and tell her the whole story, she supposed. For the moment, however, it seemed to her that she had enough on her plate already. She just couldn't deal with her mother right now, too.
The Watney's guest room had, of course, originally belonged to their son, though Caroline had obviously redecorated it a bit over the years. There was a familiar poster on one wall, framed, of a scowling Henry Chandler Cowles, with a black-and-white picture of sand dunes. His famous quotation ran along the bottom. The penalty for lack of adaptation is certain death, it warned, ominously.
She remembered it from Mark's apartment. She supposed that they must have brought it here, along with the three cardboard shipping containers that were stacked in the corner next to the closet.
For a guy in his thirties, he certainly hadn't had very much in the way of possessions. Other than a few odds and ends, pictures and college diplomas, the boxes were mostly filled with his clothes, according to the neat labels that someone had affixed to the boxes.
Richard seemed to be the family's main chef, which amused her, just a little. He puttered around the small kitchen, wearing an apron that appeared to have been a long-ago reward for supporting the local PBS affiliate. "A Rare Medium Well Done," was printed on it, in faded letters. Caroline evidently played more of an auxiliary role in the kitchen.
Various family members had been calling, throughout the day, to talk to Caroline; apparently disappointed that Caroline and Richard had chosen not to attend the larger family gathering this year. Caroline seemed to have not mentioned anything about Mindy to any of them, instead begging off, saying that they were just not ready to see people.
It wasn't fair to expect them to keep quiet about it, indefinitely; Mindy knew perfectly well that it would probably prove impossible to keep her baby's parentage a secret forever. Particularly if she took to hanging out with Mark's family, for the holidays. She was thankful, all the same, that they seemed to not be ready to discuss it with anyone yet.
She could cross that bridge when she came to it, she supposed. And it didn't appear that Caroline was inclined to tell anyone, anyway. Mindy sensed that it was more of a protective thing, rather than any unhappiness or embarrassment about the development.
It was only fair that they should know their only grandchild. They would make good grandparents, too. She could tell. It would be worth the extra trouble, even if her baby wound up becoming public knowledge. And if that wound up making her into, what, some weird kind of pseudo daughter-in-law for them; well, she'd just have to suck it up and deal with it.
They were reeling from the loss of their son, and if it comforted them to be involved in his child's life, it was Mindy's duty to facilitate.
It was still weird.
"Mindy, honey, I don't guess that I had a chance to ask you before," Mindy smiled a bit. Her new name was apparently Mindy-honey. "How is your family taking all of this?"
"Well, it's just my Mom," she ventured, "and she's not super thrilled about it, honestly."
"Oh," she looked at Mindy, sympathetically. "That's too bad."
Mindy shrugged.
"I was going to call her today, actually," she mused. "We haven't talked in awhile, now."
Caroline's eyes widened.
"How long is awhile?" she prompted.
"Since I told her I was pregnant, in October," she admitted.
Richard's eyebrows were in full unibrow-mode, as he worked in the kitchen, the silent third wheel in their conversation.
"Oh, honey." She patted Mindy's hand. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yeah," she agreed, shrugging. "It is what it is."
"She must have been taken by surprise," Caroline guessed.
"Probably so," Mindy smiled, wryly. "I told her that the baby's father was someone who traveled a lot, for work," Richard snickered at that, and then broke into laughter as she finished by explaining that her mother was under the mistaken impression that Mark was some sort of itinerant truck driver.
Caroline smiled at that, too. "You should tell her the truth, though," she smiled at Mindy.
"Well, at the time, I didn't actually plan on telling anyone until Mark was back and I could tell him, face-to-face."
"Ah."
"I thought he should be the first one to know," she smiled, ruefully. "But I didn't know how to contact him, and finally I decided that it made more sense to wait and tell him, myself."
"If we'd only known about it," Caroline mused, "we could have told him ourselves, or forwarded a message for you, to Hermes."
"Don't think that would have worked," noted Richard, from the kitchen. "Henderson wouldn't have allowed anything unsettling like that in the data dump. No upsetting his delicate flowers," he added, sardonically. "They'd have censored you, probably." He went back to stirring his pot.
"Oh, well, that's true, isn't it," Caroline said. "I suppose you're right."
"I did consider contacting Mr. Henderson myself," Mindy said, wryly, "for about five seconds until the same thought occurred to me."
Richard chuckled. "Would have loved to have been a fly on that wall."
"Oh," Caroline laughed, "you aren't kidding, mister."
Mindy giggled, too, imagining the gruff and scowling Henderson receiving that memo, as Richard set a dish of green bean casserole onto the table.
"I used to make this every year," he said, smiling, a little sadly, "Just to torture the kid."
Caroline rolled her eyes. "Mark hates it, but his reactions to it just got more and more entertaining over the years, and Richard just couldn't help himself."
Mindy smiled, as she helped herself to some. "Well, I happen to like it. Oh!"
Caroline looked at her.
"Baby just gave me a good kick in the ribs," she smiled. "Guess he doesn't like it, either," she joked.
"He?" Richard asked, unable to help himself. "Do you know, then, whether it's…"
"No," she replied. "Sorry, I don't. They asked if I wanted to know. But I thought I'd rather have a surprise."
Caroline was looking at the table with a serious expression, and Mindy thought that she had probably guessed the actual reason.
"Any preference?" Richard asked, conversationally, as he poured her drink.
"Water is fine," she replied, absentmindedly. He smirked, reminding her momentarily of Mark, and then she realized what he'd meant. "Oh. No, I guess I don't, really."
"Any ideas, for names?" Caroline asked, then.
"No," she said, "not really. I was thinking maybe Stella, for a girl."
"Mark, maybe? For a boy?" Richard looked hopeful.
"Mark Park does have a certain ring to it," she teased, just to mess with him.
He grinned, and ruffled her hair, affectionately, shaking his head. "Guess I walked right into that one."
"Yeah, you kinda did, there."
"Do you have to be back to work on Monday?" Caroline asked.
"Tomorrow, actually," she grinned. "Thus the early flight in the morning. I work Friday through Monday nights."
"Oh, I'm sorry you have to head back, so soon," Caroline admitted. "It's been nice. Having you here, I mean."
"It has been," she agreed. "I was thinking," she continued, surprising even herself, "that maybe you guys could come visit me, if you wanted, for Christmas. I was thinking of inviting my mother out, making dinner for her."
"That sounds lovely," Caroline readily agreed, surprising Mindy. "What do you think," she looked at Richard, whose eyebrows were once more united. "Would my sister be mad?"
"We can see her for New Years," he replied, easily.
"It would be nice to have a little break from all this snow," Caroline conceded.
"Well, snow is pretty unusual for Houston, I have to admit," Mindy trolled, "but last winter we had a good solid half-inch."
"Oh wow, that much, huh?" Richard deadpanned.
"Yep," Mindy confirmed, nodding, affecting an innocent expression. "Lasted a whole six hours, too."
"Young lady, have I ever got a fun and novel new hobby for you," he chuckled, trolling her right back, "it's called shoveling the snow. Builds character. Mark used to love doing it."