(2015-09-06) Now We're Cooking!
Now We're Cooking!
Summary: Terry brings in some fresh kills from a recent hunt, and discusses Camp Hope's state of affairs with Graham.
Date: 09.06.15
Related: Silence is Golden

The kitchen area is 1/4 of the size of the dining hall, but it is still quite large. Most everything is made of metal, from the counters to the appliances. There is a large double-wide fridge, used as additional storage, with alphabet magnets all over the front of it. There are two large 6 burner gas stoves and a three basin sink. Metal cabinets and shelving units line the walls and are full of kitchen ware. There are two doors, one leads outside, the other into a large pantry full of food.

It is summer. The weather is warm and drizzling.

It's not mealtime, so there isn't much of anyone in the kitchen, but Graham has brought a chair in here and appears to be waiting, perhaps. He also has something a bit bulky stuffed in the front of his jacket, which he appears to be looking at.

"Special delivery!" calls Terry, entering through the door closest to the front gate. He's carrying a dead possum (not 'dead' dead, but *dead*), and a goose to match. "You ever cook goose, or possum, before?" He glances to Graham.

"Oh," Graham says, looking up and eyeing Terry's catch. "Well…I've cooked a /goose/," he says. Apparently not possum. He looks more dubious about that.

"I could help with the possum. Gran-Gran's recipe.. Big family secret. But since I'm one of two remaining.. I guess I should share." Terry responds, chuckling.

Graham looks at the possum with a furrowed brow. "Are they safe to eat?" he asks. "Don't they have…parasites or something?"

"Gran-Gran's recipe for 'Possum and Taters. Needs a young, fat possum, eight sweet potatoes, two tablespoons of butter, one tablespoon of sugar, and salt to taste." Terry nods, before launching into the recipe. "Catch the possum, kill it, skin it, top and tail it.." He makes chopping motions at the head and feet. "Wash it thoroughly, then toss it in the freezer over-night. Somewhere cold, at least. Once you're ready to cook, peel the potatoes, boil until tender in lightly salted water, alongside butter and sugar. Stew possum until tender in a tightly covered pan with a little bit of water. Once everything's cooked, arrange the potatoes around the possum, strip with bacon, sprinkle with thyme or marjoram, or pepper, and brown in the oven. Baste often with the drippings."

"Perfectly safe to eat, when prepared properly." Terry finishes, nodding.

Graham looks a bit dubious. "Where are we going to keep getting sugar and salt if all this keeps going on?" he wonders aloud. There's a little movement in the front of his jacket, near his stomach. He looks down.

"Unless we stumble across a salt mine, or something, we might end up having to subsist on salt packets, or shakers.. or something." Terry shrugs. "But hey, if we do find a salt mine, I'll be busy. I can put my EOD training to use." He chuckles. "That, or my 'fishing' skills."

Graham looks uncertain. "Do they have salt mines in Nebraska?" he asks doubtfully. "How long do you think the packeted supply is going to last?"

"No mines that I know of.. at least, none in Nebraska. And the packeted supply.. I don't know, either." Terry winces, briefly.

Graham lapses into a moment of worried contemplation about that. His jacket give a high-pitched bark, so he unzips it further and a brown dog nose comes poking out to sniff the air.

Terry grins. "You found one, too? Cool." Terry raises two fingers, and gives a sharp whistle. A little German Shepherd puppy comes scrambling into the room, barking up a storm. The pup skids across the floor, and faceplants at Graham's feet, before righting itself.

Graham looks surprised at the advent of another puppy. "Goodness," he says. "Where do they all come from?"

"I'm still pondering names. I'm thinking of calling him 'Bark Vader'." Terry says, picking up his young charge, holding him with one arm, and giving him a playful ruffling between the ears. "Or maybe 'Apollo'."

"I was thinking to call this one Persephone," Graham says, "But Piper suggested Styx instead." He looks down at the female dog in his jacket. "Do you think we can support them?"

Terry nods. "I feed mine fairly regularly, and take him out on scavenging and hunting runs. Exercise comes in many forms." He hugs his pup, and gives it a playful noogie. "Who's a good boy. Whooooo's a good boy! You are!"

"But, I mean, aren't food supplies limited?" Graham asks.

"Yeah. I slice off a piece of my kills here and there.." Terry responds, focusing on his dog.

"But what I mean is, how many petsor people, for that mattercan this local ecosystem support indefinitely?" Graham asks, looking a little surprised that Terry doesn't sem more concerned about the logistics.

"I don't have the answers to that. .. And that probably doesn't sound all that great. But hey, we have food tonight, so tonight we feast." Terry rolls his shoulders, offering a light shrug.

"Do you think there are enough people to cook?" Graham asks, still looking a little worried. "Maybe I could help with that."

Terry nods. "I'm sure it'd be welcome. I hunt, fish, and scavenge, but my cooking isn't all that great. Roasting hotdogs, marshmallows, and stuff I can do.. I'm more of a 'taste tester' than a 'food prep' guy. I can chop, pound, and all.. but I'm liable to burn water, more than get it to boil." He jokes.

"I used to like cooking," Graham says with a kind of worn cheerfulness. "I wonder what their setup is, here. Wood stoves? Or…?"

"You need me to do anything with weapons.. service, build.. that I can do. You need a weapon cleaned, I will field-strip that sucker, and make it sparkle. You won't have to shoot anybody, just point it at 'em and watch them go blind." Terry pauses while Graham speaks, and starts pointing things out, flight attendant-style. "Double-wide fridge, two gas stoves — six burners each — and three sinks." He then points up to the cabinets. "Kitchenwares stored up there." And finally the doors. "Pantry, and dining hall."

"Where does the gas come from?" Graham asks, brow furrowing again. "Cannisters? How much fuel do we have?"

"There's a big tank just outside. Four hundred gallons, I think. And we've got at least two refills that I know of.. Quin scavenged one, I brought in the other." Terry responds.

"That's not going to last forever," Graham says, looking increasingly worried. "Has anyone done the math?"

"If it'll make you feel better, give me some time, and I'll run the numbers for you." Terry responds, coolly.

Graham tilts his head slightly. "Well, it's not that I feel like /I/ need to know, necessarily, but I'd just like to think that someone in the camp has calculated how long our supplies will last at the current rate of consumption," Graham says, brow furrowing. "Doesn't that seem important to you?"

Terry nods. "Yeah, it does. Sonny probably knows.. I'll check with him. Don't have a meltdown." He tries to sound reassuring.

Graham blinks at Terry. "Well, I don't think I am," he replies, "But it is important information."

Terry nods, agreeing. "I concur."

"Well," Graham says, getting up. "I guess somehow we'll have to get the feathers off that goose."

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