It hadn't been long since we departed Zenit Pardua. The kitchen of the Sperm Whale was thick with steam that carried the faint, grounding scent of earth.
In a large bowl, I used a wooden spatula to vigorously mash freshly steamed Rock Root—otherwise known as Pseudo-Potato.
"...Akito, you look like you're having an awfully good time, aren't you?"
Across from the cooking counter, Mina watched me with a look of curiosity while she chopped Ninjin-modoki with somewhat uncertain hands.
"Fun, huh? ...Well, maybe I am."
Back in the real world, potato salad had been at the top of the list of "dishes that are a pain to make." You had to wash the potatoes, boil them, peel them while they were still piping hot, and then mash them with all your might. Whether the result was a delicacy truly worthy of such labor was debatable. It was always faster and significantly cheaper to just buy a tub at a supermarket’s deli counter. Any recipe that required mashing was a hassle by definition.
However, to the current me, the simple act of crushing ingredients that possessed actual form was surprisingly therapeutic.
I felt the Rock Root’s fibers give way through the handle of my makeshift masher, the sensation vibrating against my palm. With my old body, my arms would have grown weary in no time, but my current strength was on a different level entirely. No matter how stubborn the potato, it transformed into a smooth paste at my whim. Even so, I made it a point to leave a few coarse chunks in the mix; preserving that bit of texture was my personal signature.
"Mashing steamed potatoes is usually just backbreaking labor... but right now, this solid feedback feels like proof. It’s proof that I’m actually handling 'real food.'"
I thought back to the perfectly uniform Tasty Cubes—the synthetic rations we’d eaten at Zenit Pardua. Those things lacked the messy, tactile reality that came from the cooking process.
I added the Pseudo-Onions I’d sliced and soaked in water to the bowl, followed by the Ninjin-modoki Mina had prepared, a generous helping of Homemade Bacon fried to a crisp, and finally, the All-Purpose Seasoning Oil (Mayo Type)—our Pseudo-Mayonnaise. While the Mayo Type’s flavor was a bit lackluster on its own, the robust, savory aroma of the Homemade Bacon more than made up for it.
"The starch structure of the Rock Root has been completely compromised, allowing the lipids and moisture to integrate uniformly. Master, this dish known as 'Potato Salad' is effectively the process of molecular destruction and reconstruction."
Lucia, observing from the side, offered her usual clinical analysis.
"Destruction and reconstruction, huh? I suppose Mashed Potatoes on their own aren't much different from a food paste."
But potato salad was a proper dish. Each time I folded the ingredients together, the heat from the Rock Root coaxed out their aromas, filling the kitchen with the heavy, comforting scent of home.
"Alright, it's done. It's good chilled, too, but let's start with a serving while it's still warm."
I plated the salad and finished it with a generous grind of Black Pepper. The Handmade Potato Salad was finally complete.
"...Mmm! This is incredible! The sweetness of the potatoes soaked up all the fat from the meat—it’s so rich! The mashed parts just melt away on my tongue..."
"...The contrast between the smooth puree and the hearty chunks... the two textures dancing in my mouth with every bite is quite an intriguing experience, desu-u. The occasional crunch of the carrots and bacon provides a lovely accent, desu-u."
Emulgand was equally captivated, her spoon moving with intent.
I took a bite of my own creation.
With every swallow, the texture of the warm potatoes seemed to tether my consciousness, pulling it back from the cold "edge of the galaxy" to the "solid, sun-warmed earth."
Even the tasks I once considered a chore now felt like the ultimate luxury. The strength filling my limbs, the genuine ingredients before me—transforming them with my own hands and sharing the result with my crew was everything.
"...It’s good."
I flexed my hand, the lingering sensation of the masher still etched into my palm, and turned my gaze toward the flight path leading to our next Gateway.