Takes place before the series begins. No warnings, no violence, no pairings, no language, no nudity.
Rated: G
Two Teaspoons
1.
I hear the padding footsteps before I see him, but I don't turn around. Such a serious little boy, I think, all eyes and that mop of hair. Another cup of onions into the wok, and I sprinkle some sugar over top, stirring quickly. The sizzling drowns out the progress of his investigation into the kitchen.
Several more minutes pass, as I check the rice, stirring it a few times and making sure the burner is on the lowest possible setting. Some of the technicians prefer short-grain rice, and it's not only a hassle to get it brought from Earth, it's also a hassle to cook it without it turning into a mess of glutin.
When I turn around to dump the onions and green peppers into a bowl, the boy is standing in the doorway. His blue eyes regard me with a great deal of seriousness, as though he's measured me up and found me lacking, somehow. Being an uncle obviously hasn't made me any better at dealing with kids, let alone this kid, but my nieces will never be like him.
I hope not, at least.
"This is a very inefficient way of doing things," he tells me. The boy's voice isn't condemning; just stating something that he's already concluded must be a fact.
"Efficiency isn't the point," I tell him, and finish dumping the vegetables.
A part of me wants to smack that wide-eyed but somehow satisfied look off his face, but I've heard the stories. This is definitely one kid that won't get a spanking and be tossed off to bed. You'd probably wake up with a gun to your head, if you tried that. Instead, I do the passive version of the same, which amounts to turning my back on him.
I set the wok down on the stove, firing the heat up again, leaning away quickly when the soy sauce splatters from the pan. A few dashes of rice vinegar, and I twist open the bottles of ginger and garlic, scooping out a teaspoon of minced garlic with my fingers. Shaking my hand in a quick movement, the garlic hits the searing liquid and sizzles, followed a second later by another teaspoon, and then one of ginger.
By the time I turn around again, the boy is gone.
2.
The next time it's my turn to cook, he appears in the kitchen, fresh from the target range. He's announced by the taint of ammonia, kerosene, and a hint of sulfur, which will follow him for the next few hours, until it fades from his small hands. I inhale the curry deeply, letting the tang settle into my nostrils until I can no longer smell the boy's presence.
"You cook with too many pans," he tells me, and this time he's sitting at the counter.
"Maybe I do," I answer, and spoon the paneer out of the hot oil, setting it on a napkin-covered plate to drain. "But that's part of the process."
He's quiet for several minutes. I doubt he's mulling it over. More likely he's watching intently, waiting to see me perform yet another action that will prove his conclusions correct. Or perhaps not; I'm not really sure. I'm only here to supervise the life-systems and take my turn cooking once a week. I know my way around guns, and the mainframe, and I can do a decent job on a mobile suit if I have to, but I'm not one of his teachers, and I only see the Doctor in the halls, every now and then. So the fact that the boy even notes my existence is a bit of a surprise. But, from what I hear from Jake, the boy is a walking bundle of surprises.
If a very self-contained bundle, at that. When I turn around to lay out flour before making samosas, I'm alone in the kitchen.
3.
I peruse the ingredients and decide on Chinese cuisine, wondering if the boy will appear this week. Last week he was testing the Doctor's mobile suit design, and didn't appear for dinner that night. Jake said the boy had K-rations after they carried him out of the suit, but something about that didn't sit right with me. Not like I get much say in the matter. I'm just here to make sure people can breathe on this far-flung resource satellite, and to sometimes tickle their taste buds.
I nearly trip over the kid this time, though, when I turn to grab a knife from the rack. He's at my elbow, and I'm startled by just how tiny he is. Maybe four feet, a few inches taller, and his eyes are large, watching my actions as I chop the pork into thin strips. I push the meat off the cutting board into a bowl, and rinse the board quickly before flipping it over and grabbing the bag of green peppers. He watches as I crack them open, ripping out the seedpods and rinsing them thoroughly.
"You washed the outsides already," he tells me.
"Have to wash the seeds out, too," I reply. "Otherwise they'll make the food bitter. Even one," I add, seeing a wayward seed and directing the water at it.
"It's just food," the boy says, but his eyes never leave my hands.
"It's more than just food." I chop the green peppers, pausing to glance towards the refrigeration unit. "Get me the garlic and ginger?"
The boy regards me for a second, as though weighing whether or not I'm someone important enough to be telling him what to do. After a second, he gives me a serious little nod. I hear him grunt and glance over my shoulder to see him trying to pry the door open. The seals are tight on the unit. Shaking my head, I cross the three feet and reach for the door, but he spins in place, his body pressed against the door as if to keep me from approaching.
"I can do it." His voice is flat, and certain, but his body's taut, his eyes narrowed.
I raise my hands in surrender, backing away. I don't stop checking, though, and soon he figures out that if he puts a foot against the wall, he can get enough force to yank the door open. Then there's a clunking sound, and he sets the two bottles on the counter by my elbow. I smirk to myself. If he stepped forward and went up on his toes, he could just perch his chin on the counter.
"Get a chair," I say. When he gives me a suspicious look, I shrug. "Or you can stand there and miss everything."
He considers that, then disappears behind me. I can hear the scraping sound, an undercurrent to the knife's edge slapping the cutting board as I chop the broccoli. For a moment, I consider extending help, but remember the tense shoulders, the desperate look in his eyes, as though daring me to prove him wrong. I sigh, and wait patiently, hearing the soft grunts as he maneuvers the chair to the counter and clambers up onto the seat. When he stands upright, his head is level with mine.
"This is pork," I say, pointing to the first bowl. He studies it for a second, and then nods. I'm having the damnedest time keeping a straight face, and it takes effort to force my voice flat. "These are green peppers, that's broccoli, and these are snow peas. I've got rice cooking, which is one part rice, one and a half parts water."
"Why not cook it all together?" He frowns at me.
"Several reasons. One, cooking time," and I explain how to make rice, lifting the lid with a whoosh of steam. I tilt the pot so he can see into it, and he nods as though granting his approval. "Now, we need seasoning. Equal parts soy sauce, rice vinegar, sesame oil, and then two teaspoons of sugar."
"Sugar is for dessert," the boy says, his brow wrinkling as he watches me dip into the sugar container. "You're not measuring it."
"Am too," I declare. "Second drawer. Measuring spoons."
The boy bends over, rattling around in the drawer before raising a set of measuring spoons. I measure out a teaspoon of sugar by hand, and then hold out my palm, pouring it carefully into the waiting spoon.
"One teaspoon," and I nearly laugh at the fact that his eyes seemed to have swallowed his face, for shock. They go narrow, then, and I'm not sure whether it's because he suspects I'm laughing at him, or because he's trying to determine what trick I used to make my inefficient measurement just right.
"Dump it in the bowl," I tell him, and he does. A flicker of a smile appears on his face, and I decide to follow a hunch. "Here's a spoon. You stir, while I check the rice."
He takes the spoon, and carefully stirs the ingredients together, flinching a little when I drop in two teaspoons of garlic and a teaspoon of crushed ginger. The boy doesn't complain, however, and continues to stir, methodically and cautiously. I notice the line between his brows is gone, and rather than tell him to stop, I let him keep stirring.
When I serve dinner that night, I don't speak of the help I received. But I notice that his face, just visible above the table from from his perch on a box, has the faintest cast of triumph as the men praise the dinner.
4.
"Where did you learn to cook?"
The boy doesn't wait, now, but joins me soon after I begin my weekly kitchen duty. Five weeks, now, and he's merely followed my direction, watching closely at everything I do. When I vary my routine, he tells me, but I'm not sure whether he's correcting me, or just trying to figure it out. The chair moves from its place by the wall, the little body striving less to make the effort, and I sigh. I've heard rumors the Doctor is doing something to the kid to make him stronger, and while I can see the results already, it's a bit creepy. He can open the refrigeration unit without needing to put a leg up against the wall for extra leverage, too.
"Lots of places," I say, eyeing the pork in the wok before stirring it a few more times. "Had a Chinese girlfriend, once, and she taught me much of what I know. She taught me what to cook, and for how long," I amend. "She didn't teach me how."
He puzzles over that, carefully scooping out a chunk of minced garlic from the bottle, and eyeing it carefully. Obviously dubious, he rummages in the drawer before getting the measuring spoons, and scoops up the garlic from his palm, studying the amount in the spoon for several seconds. Satisfied, he drops it into the bowl with the ginger.
"What's the difference?" The voice is flat, but I've learned it's not because he doesn't care. He does care. He's just not sure what it means, so he keeps it all at arm's length.
The boy selects a wooden spoon from the instrument rack and begins stirring the oil, vinegar, and soy sauce together with the garlic and ginger. I pause to check the noodles, before returning my attention to the meat, simmering on the edges of the wok's bottom.
"Anyone can follow a recipe," I say, eyeing the pork before tossing in the bok choy. "But there's something else you have to know, before you can really make a meal. Well," and I grin, mostly to myself, "it's not the recipe you have to know."
"The tools," he offers.
"Nope." I shake my head.
His brow wrinkles, and he studies everything on the countertop. "The heat?"
"Nope," I repeat.
He narrows his eyes at me, as though we're back to me trying to convince him that I can measure out a teaspoon of something without needing to use a spoon.
"Here," I say, and tap him on the chest. He instinctively looks down, then back up at me, his face baffled. "It's in here," I tell him, and tap him again. When he looks down a second time, I chuck him under the chin, and barely catch myself from laughing when he gives me a shy smile from under his eyelashes.
"You have to know yourself," I explain, and lift the pot of noodles, pouring them into a waiting strainer. "My ex-girlfriend only used one teaspoon each of garlic and ginger, but I use two of garlic, and one of ginger. That's cause I follow my instincts."
"Follow your instincts," the boy parrots. His eyes are impossibly wide, and he stares at the wok as though I'd just shown him the Holy Grail. I wonder what he's thinking now, but he doesn't say anything else, and the moment passes.
"Always follow the recipe, at first, just to see what will happen," I tell him, grabbing a slotted spoon. "And then, once you know your tools, adjust as your heart tells you. Or," and I grin down at him, "as your stomach tells you." I hold out a snow pea, my hand cupped under the spoon. "Taste."
Obediently he opens his mouth, blowing on the snow pea a few times before nibbling at the edge. Then he takes it into his mouth, closing his eyes, and I watch as the little line appears between his brows. Then it disappears, and his eyes open, catching me off-guard once again with how sky-blue they can be, even so far from the Earth.
"Well," I ask, "what do your instincts tell you?"
"More ginger," he informs me. The boy pries the top off the ginger bottle, scoops out two fingersful, and studies it for a second before dropping it into the wok. There's a flicker of a smile around the edges of his lips, and he glances up at me, as though checking to see what I'll say.
"Two teaspoons it is, then," I tell him.