Jayne's stomach knows when it's harvest back home.
Ain't too much on the table most of the year on Downhome, but get the harvest in right, and there's weeks of plenty. Squash, mainly, as orange and sweet inside as the season demands, but if your momma knows what to do with it, squash can be a feast for weeks. Soup, sure, or roasted with greens and herbs it's better'n any skinny farmed beast. Or there's squash dumplings, squash cake, Downhome Brew (squash ale), squash pie (sweet with mallow and honey)…
Come winter, you'd be oozing squash from every pore, and gorram glad when the glut was past, temporarily. Come spring, and another week of gruel and grits, you'd have dreams of squash and wake up dribbling with unfulfilled hungers. Anticipation would grow, week on week, knowing the harvest was on the way.
Out here, out in the black, a man can go weeks without seeing anything growing or real. Jayne can go a long way on a protein bar or six, but come the turning of the Downhome seasons, his system starts to crave. Maybe every third year, Ma Cobb's care package of squash bars makes it to wherever Jayne's pursuing his trade without being ripped open and devoured by some other deep space mercenary with a taste for boiled down sweet vegetable taffy.
This ain't that year; not with Miranda and all. So Jayne's stomach rumbles, unheard and unsatisfied, in the deepest of the black and a long, long way from home.
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Ain't too much on the table most of the year on Downhome, but get the harvest in right, and there's weeks of plenty. Squash, mainly, as orange and sweet inside as the season demands, but if your momma knows what to do with it, squash can be a feast for weeks. Soup, sure, or roasted with greens and herbs it's better'n any skinny farmed beast. Or there's squash dumplings, squash cake, Downhome Brew (squash ale), squash pie (sweet with mallow and honey)…
Come winter, you'd be oozing squash from every pore, and gorram glad when the glut was past, temporarily. Come spring, and another week of gruel and grits, you'd have dreams of squash and wake up dribbling with unfulfilled hungers. Anticipation would grow, week on week, knowing the harvest was on the way.
Out here, out in the black, a man can go weeks without seeing anything growing or real. Jayne can go a long way on a protein bar or six, but come the turning of the Downhome seasons, his system starts to crave. Maybe every third year, Ma Cobb's care package of squash bars makes it to wherever Jayne's pursuing his trade without being ripped open and devoured by some other deep space mercenary with a taste for boiled down sweet vegetable taffy.
This ain't that year; not with Miranda and all. So Jayne's stomach rumbles, unheard and unsatisfied, in the deepest of the black and a long, long way from home.