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John Silver is a man who knows his way around a kitchen. Even one that's gleaming with more steel than the entire British Navy's armory. And this kitchen is a sea cook's dream. The pantries are stocked to the ceiling, and there's cold storage with fresh meat and eggs and even cheese.

First off, he wants a joint. Something that isn't pig or bird. A proper beef joint, like a fine gentleman would have for his Sunday dinner. And he's going to make it himself. There's something disturbing about having rats handle his food. They gave up trying to shoo him out of the kitchen when he waved his crutch at them, nearly taking one's head off.

'Go on! Bleedin' vermin. I run a fine establishment, and there are no rats in the larder!' Well, at least not for long, anyway. 'Get out, or I'll find a cat to turn loose in here, and then you'll see what for!'

He'll have this place up to snuff in no time, given half a chance.

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'I should hope so. S'my job to feed a few dozen hungry sailors every day, morning, noon, and night.'

In no time at all, he's shoving a cast iron pot into the oven, and peering at the dials.

'Erm...'

Okay, this may be a bit beyond him.

Sunshine glances over, at the sound of hesitation. Oh! Right.

"I've always wondered about why so much of Milliways gravitates towards late 20th, early 21st century tech," she says, approaching the oven. "What are you making?"

He hefts the heavy lid off, showing her a slab of meat surrounded by potatoes, onions, carrots and a few sprigs of rosemary.

'Just a bit of a Sunday joint, luv. I'm used to cooking over an open flame. These are all fine and dandy, but they're a might confusing, to one such as myself.'

He starts fiddling with the dials, leaning heavily on the stove so he can peer down into the oven as he does.

'No coals here to work with. How's a bloke supposed to cook without any coals?'

"Hold up for a sec," she says, heading over to a shelf of recipe books. Handy, those. "I don't eat meat, myself, or else I could tell you how hot to set it."

"Ovens like this, you just tell it how hot you want it to be, to cook what you're wanting to cook, and it'll stay at that temperature until you turn it off," Rae explains, flipping through one of the likelier-looking cookbooks.

He hobbles after her, curious what she's up to. He wrinkles his brow, peering over her shoulder at the shelf of books. He reads fairly well for a man of his era, and is rather kicking himself that he didn't check to see if there were notes. He's never seen a published cookbook before.

'It's four pounds, and with the -- here, let me see that.'

He winks at her as he gently takes the book, flipping through it like the reverend in search of scripture as he makes his way back to the His finger lands on a page, pinning it, and then he looks back up at her.

'And these knobs, here? There's no "ROAST" button.'

"There should be a suggested temperature and time for a roast, in the recipe book," Rae says, following. "To set the oven, you just turn the knob to the right temperature, and it'll heat up. Then you set the oven timer, and it'll ring when it's done."

His chin drops and his eyebrows go up. 'Yeah? That simple, huh? No wonder they have vermin doing a man's work.'

He leans in, hopping on his crutch, and dials up the proper number. Again, he leans back and chuffs when the pilot light catches.

'Well, I'll be. That's brilliant. Thank you, Sunshine. I am indebted for your assistance. Now, come sit and tell me why you don't eat meat. Sounds right unhealthy, if you ask me.'

Sunshine chuckles, going to prepare the pot for the water that will soon be boiling.

"There are some in my world who'd tell you eating meat is unhealthy, too," she grins, measuring out the jasmine green tea. "But that's not why I don't eat it. Fact is, I can't eat it."

Silver drags over a chair and slumps down in it, propping his crutch up against the counter. He takes a moment to massage his thighs, eyeing her somewhat skeptically.

'Can't? What, does it make you ill?'

"Yep," she says, watching the steam beginning to rise from the kettle. "I can't even react to it as though it was food."

Only like it was a hacked-up piece of some dead thing.

He leans back in his chair, watching her shoulders tense up a bit.

'Well, that's a shame. Suppose that means I'll have to bake you a cake, or -- a trifle, or something similar.'

He looks like he's puzzling through his options.

"Careful," Rae smiles at him over her shoulder. "I'm a professional baker - I'm a tough judge of cakes."

Bewaaaaaare. ^_^

"How do you take your tea?"

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