|our roads may be golden, or broken, or lost (elliemurasaki) wrote,|
@ 2012-06-02 05:32 pm UTC
|Entry tags:||fic: supernatural|
Summary: They can only afford to eat processed food. This is a problem.
Pairings: Jess/Jo, sort of.
Word Count: 830
Jess's head is all fuzzy and she doesn't like it. There's a vampire nest in town, she remembers that, but how does one kill a vampire? She can't put her finger on it.
Music plays: There's a ghost in my lungs
And it sighs in my sleep
Wraps itself around my tongue
As it softly speaks
"Shut that thing up," Jo groans from the motel bed.
It takes Jess a minute to figure out that music equals phone equals pick up, press button, say hi.
"Jess, hey, it's Sam," says Sam. "We figured out the leviathans' latest trick. Do not eat processed food. Nothing with high-fructose corn syrup, nothing with additives at all if you can manage it. No fast food."
"Why?" Jess asks. Because of course all she and Jo can afford to eat is processed crap and fast food. "What's wrong?"
Sam explains, in increasingly frustrated tones.
"Fuck," Jess says when the message finally gets through. "Warning's a little late, Sam."
"Yeah, I figured that out," Sam says.
"So, what, switch to real food and we'll be fine?" Jess asks.
"I think so," Sam says. "Take care, now." He hangs up.
Jess relays the conversation to Jo. "Real food," Jo says in tones of longing. "Like Mom used to make."
"Yeah," Jess says. "Burgers. Pizza."
"No processed food," Jo reminds Jess.
Jess eyes the kitchenette's oven. "Homemade pizza?"
"Sure," Jo says. "You know how?"
"Uh." They have a kitchenette in this motel room, but they do not have a bread machine. Jess does not know how to make pizza dough without a bread machine.
They finally come to the conclusion that they should go to Walmart or somewhere and acquire a bread machine. "Ammo budget," Jess says. "We don't need more ammo for this hunt. Do we?"
"I don't think so," Jo says.
Sixty dollars at Walmart on a bread machine with a dough cycle, and several more dollars on measuring cups and spoons, a cutting board and kitchen knives, a rolling pin, a couple cookie sheets. Then Safeway: bread flour, olive oil, table salt (putting rock salt in anything they mean to eat seems a bad plan somehow), sugar, yeast. "Uh, what's going on the pizza?" Jess asks.
"Pizza sauce?" Jo asks. "Cheese? Pineapple?"
There is indeed pineapple. Canned in syrup is no good, but canned in its own juice is fine, and there's some of that too. This is good: Jess has no idea what to do with a pineapple the way it came off the plant.
The cans and jars of pizza sauce are useless as well, but there's tomato puree. Ingredients, tomatoes and citric acid. "Does citric acid count as a food additive?" Jo wonders.
"You want to buy tomatoes and a blender?" Jess asks.
"Sucrocorp doesn't deal with citric acid," Jo says. "I think."
They buy tomatoes. And fresh basil. Pre-shredded mozzarella has additives; block mozzarella does not, so they get some of that. "Dough, sauce, cheese, pineapple," Jo counts. "I think that's everything?"
"Blender," says Jess. "Cheese shredder."
Back to Walmart. Their ammo budget is taking a serious hit, and their motel budget probably will too, since apparently now they can only stay places they can cook.
Jess zones out again while running the water in the kitchenette to warm it up; she comes to when she realizes the water is quite hot. She runs it cold for a while, then back to warm until it's about skin temperature, cursing herself: if that happened on a hunt, she would be a goddamn doornail.
Jess measures each dough ingredient and pours it in the bread machine insert while Jo shreds the mozzarella. Once the machine's going, Jess chops the tomatoes, chops the basil, and narrowly avoids chopping her fingers. "I don't like this," she says. "I don't like this at all. I think that's enough cheese," she adds, stopping Jo, who has nearly shredded down to her fingers.
"Oh," Jo says. "Okay."
Tomatoes in the blender, basil in the blender, turn the blender on and leave it there till the tomato goo is nice and even. Drain the pineapple can into the sink. And wait another forty-five minutes until the pizza dough is done.
"Now what?" Jo asks.
The fuzz is encroaching upon Jess's brain again and she can't think.
"This is going to suck," Jess grumbles.
"What, the pizza?" Jo asks.
"No, the—no eating Burger King. No drinking soda. No vending machines."
"It's pop," Jo says automatically: an old argument. "Yeah. This is gonna suck."
The pizza sucks, too, when it finally gets finished baking. The tomato sauce is flavorless, the crust bland, the cheese and pineapple not much better.
Two hours later, when Jess is thinking clearly enough to call Jo's mom and pass on the warning, when Jo is thinking clearly enough to pull out their laptop with the Buffy DVD rips and mock the vampire-killing strategies found therein, Jess decides it's the best pizza she's ever had.