sg1 fic: it's all in the preparation (sam, ishta, gen)
Title: It's All in the Preparation
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Pairing: gen, Sam, Ishta
Rating: teen
Notes: For prehistoric_sea, in the purimgifts exchange. 720 words.
Summary: Sam's system fails.


When Sam sat down to share a meal with the women of the Hak'tyl, she started out intending to do what she always did in these situations. She had a system that involved accepting small amounts of whatever was offered, watching her team mates for their reactions - when they were present, that is - and eating slowly. Small bites, that was the key. After seven years, she had a stomach that was practically goat-like, but had never suffered any seriously ill-effects at the hands of various off-world hosts.

Today the system was failing, however. She was too busy listening to the women around her, asking questions and answering their own. She didn't even notice what was being heaped on her plate until the young woman seated to her left indicated and said, "You do not wish to eat?"

"Yes," she hurried to say, looking down at her plate. "Wow, it looks really good."

When the girl glanced away, Sam poked 'it' discreetly. Then she tried some, chewing and swallowing thoughtfully.

Huh.

It was a slightly different shade, and it was firmer, and more savoury. It was being served with a salad of greens, for instance, rather than as a dessert. But there was no way around it.

Blue jello.

Hundreds of light years to get here, and they were serving up the commissary's weekday menu.

"You do not find it appetising?" It was Ishta who spoke, she had seated herself on Sam's other side, but until now had been engaged in a discussion further down the table.

"Actually, I do, it's very good. I was just thinking, it's quite similar to something I have often back on Earth." She took another bite, happy to show she liked the food - especially since she actually did. She'd certainly faked it often enough.

The look Ishta gave her was an interesting one. "You realise," she said, "this dish is prepared using the rendered hooves of herd animals?"

"Uh," said Sam, "yes. Well, I assumed - on Earth we call it 'jello'."

Ishta took in this information, before continuing, "It is then sweetened with gelrek'pa, which is found in abundance on many worlds." Sam assumed that was a kind of berry, it certainly tasted vaguely raspberry-ish. "I know there are those who find it pleasing, but I have never cared for the food myself." Another pause, as Ishta looked away before leaning closer as if confiding a secret. "I do not like the colour."

"Really? I've always thought that was the best part." Sam grinned as Ishta raised an eyebrow.

"And yet, you have not touched your sandip." She indicated a side dish.

Oh, and it had to be the things that looked like giant grasshopper legs, Sam thought. Of course it did.

"One of my favourites," Ishta added.

"I'm um, oh I'm feeling pretty full. I mean I know you've said your resources are limited. I just wouldn't want to waste good food."

She got another look, but Ishta merely said, "As you wish."

And Sam heaved a little mental sigh of relief. She would have eaten it if pressed, but Ishta's good manners let her off the hook. That, or Sam had just been really obvious about it.

A few minutes passed, and they talked about other things. Sam was in the middle of explaining the origins of Tretonin when she absently forked up a mouthful of the not-quite-jello. A few minutes after that, she did it again.

"You are still eating," Ishta pointed out.

Sam froze with the utensil halfway back to her plate. "Oh." She swallowed, then brightened. "Well, on Earth we have a saying - 'there's always room for jello.'"

Ishta reached for one of Sam's as yet untouched... whatever they were. The little spines on the feet were just plain creepy. "We too have a saying concerning the dish of which you are partaking."

"Oh?" Sam took another bite.

"Yes. 'She who does not ask where gelrek'pa comes from, may enjoy her... 'jello' in peace.'"

Ishta chewed on her barbecued grasshopper.

Sam took a moment to wonder what these women might consider worse than the boiled-down hooves of herd animals. Or unreasonably large insectoid appendages. She set down her fork.

Ishta offered her the platter. "Leg?"

"Thanks."

It tasted kind of like chicken.