The little o here stands for Omake. This is a Japanese convention, and basically means ‘extra’. Used in anime and manga usually. Omake can be stuff that doesn’t fit into the main Missions narrative, or it can just be interesting or amusing stand alone scenes, outtakes, and so on.

These are in between missions, when my characters develop other aspects of their lives. This episode is cross listed with food, so you can expect them to be discussing food.

Arroz con Leche

Stacy was at the pantry, examining the vast variety of offerings. This was either the biggest home pantry she had ever seen in her life, or it was the store of extremely multicultural, and therefore not far right wing, doomsday preppers.

She noticed vanilla extract. Not an artificial flavor, but the real thing! The Benefactors (and their contracted suppliers) really provided quality!

And there was Mexican rice. Now, what were the qualities of this rice again? If only the Benefactors had provided a nice library of recipes in addition to their very multicultural supplies on board…

Oh, so that’s what the kitchen computer is for!

Stacy quickly checked the internet using the kitchen computer.

Aha! Mexican rice, medium grain, gets very soft. Not an ideal type of rice for many Asian rice dishes. But it had its uses…

And Stacy also had something at the back of her mind all along. There was milk in the fridge. Whole milk, not skimmed or powdered. Even with five people on board, this was going to have to go fast. To eat milk with cornflakes or oatmeal every morning was too boring. A cook should do better. A leader should do better. So… so… she had to think up something…

Spanish class, Mexicans…

Springtime in Russia. April. Not too many seasonal crops yet. Many people would be still eating last year’s preserves, such as canned fruit. Of which there was plenty on board. Sweet stuff…

Got it. Arroz con leche.

Now, how to prepare it? Via rigid imitation of someone else’s recipe, or her own expression?

Hmmm… Hmmm…

Stacy had volunteered to be the ship’s cook because she knew she had some competence and experience. But Stacy’s cooking had always been limited by many constraints, so she was not really sure how to define a good cook.

Unconsciously, Stacy looked up at the ceiling. She wasn’t looking at anything in particular; just trying to go through all the concepts about cooking philosophy that she knew (or guessed were in existence).

Marilyn came into the kitchen – or almost came in. But she saw Stacy staring at the ceiling, and ducked out again. Coming from an authoritarian society, Marilyn had a sense never to disturb those higher on the social hierarchy. Stacy might be friendly, but she was also the leader and considered an important person by the Benefactors. Not to mention, Marilyn had the sense that Stacy was more educated, intelligent and knowledgeable. So she did have that sense of respect. But Marilyn also wanted to see what Stacy might do next, so she stood outside and peeked in.

…

Some people treated cooking as a skill, and it was divorced from the personality of the cook. But Stacy had sensed at a young age that her cooking was less a skill, than an expression of her personality, values, knowledge and understanding. And of course her creativity.

So there was a danger that others might not like her cooking. Because there were always a bunch of considerations that Stacy brought to the kitchen.

But nonethess, Stacy felt that there were good reasons for her team to accept her cooking. She counted off the reasons on her fingers, starting with her index:

1) healthy and sustainable. Stacy avoided deep frying or char-grilling and toned down sugar, salt and fats.

2) flexible in line with varying supply availability. Stacy was not tied to any recipe, which made her more adaptable to coping with the challenges of supply shortages. It also helped her adapt to the benefits of excess production, which caused some foods to be more available cheaply.

3) multicultural and not limited to any culinary tradition. Stacy’s team was five very different people, and surely morale would drop if Stacy only catered to one kind of cooking philosophy or type of food.

4) varied. Thanks to the stocks on board, the information from the internet, and her own broad experiences, Stacy could offer a continuous stream of different foods. Her team would never be bored.

5) economical. The Benefactors had supplied an already well stocked ship with long research expeditions in mind. Onboard storage could probably keep them going for the better part of a year with zero other food purchases. If supplemented by cheap and common staples like potatoes and onions, and by perishables like basil leaf and milk, ZIL could keep going for nearly two years with minimal food expenditures. Conserving cash was a very good idea since they weren’t sure how much it cost to keep the airship running and whether they would get enough paying work to cover all costs.

…

So that was five. Stacy contemplated her open palm.

…

Marilyn noticed Stacy counting on her fingers. She didn’t say anything, but found it curious.

Finger counting was something deeply tied to culture. It could indicate where one had spent one’s childhood.

Most Russians and Central Asians would count by bending their fingers inwards.

Continental Europeans started by unbending their digits starting from the thumb.

Some ethnic groups counted fingers and toes, creating a base-20 counting system.

Other ethnic groups used the space between fingers, creating a base-8 system.

And there were even more rare variants, usually from isolated tribal groups, that went up to base 22 or 27, which came came from counting other body parts.

Marilyn pursed her lips, not sure what to think.

Stacy’s counting had started by extending the index finger of one hand. That could either be American or Chinese. Chinese normally used one hand and different gestures for numbers over 5, whereas Americans used the other hand. Since Stacy had stopped at 5, Marilyn couldn’t tell.

As a former member of the security forces in a Central Asian country, Marilyn was suspicious of both the USA and China. She had to be skeptical about this new leader. Was Stacy a CIA agent? Marilyn made a note to watch Stacy’s body language and other nonverbal gestures.

…

Suddenly Marilyn saw Stacy looking at her.

Whoops!

“Something about me?” Stacy asked gently.

“Oh no, just, well, daydreaming,”

“You were looking at my hands,” Stacy said. And watched bemused as Marilyn fumbled for an excuse. Marilyn had completely not been expecting Stacy to catch this, and her normal wit failed her.

“It’s all right,” Stacy gave Marilyn a tranquil smile. “I have an idea why you were looking at my hands.”

“Uh…”

“I know about this. Sometimes it’s a conscious choice.”

Marilyn felt a twinge of discomfort. Was Stacy a CIA agent? Or Mossad? Was she up to no good on board this airship?

But Stacy had not been thinking CIA. She was merely thinking about legitimacy.

“I was born in New York and spent some time there as a child,” Stacy said. “American finger counting is natural to me. And I also know how to change my body language a bit. When talking to people who are not happy with Russians, or who want to adopt a pro-American stance, I also adjust how I do things.”

“Oh… so this was just an act?”

“No, not at all!” Stacy waved a hand. “I don’t lie to people about who I am!”

The two women’s eyes met.

Putting a right hand over her heart in a common Muslim gesture of sincerity, Stacy explained:

“I am the offspring of four different minority groups, all of whom spoke languages mutually unintelligible with each other. I was a Soviet citizen born in the most capitalistic city in the world. To parents and grandparents who worked for the government in different capacities. Such as the Soviet Permanent Mission to the UN. From young I have had contact with different cultures and peoples. Different customs, practices, diets, values, perspectives.”

Using her peripheral vision, Stacy noticed that Naz, Riley and Angel were listening at the other kitchen door. It was actually mildly funny, since Angel was standing right in the middle, while Riley and Naz were peeking from the sides.

“I am aware that body language can change, so if I want to make people feel better or more comfortable, I do my best to adopt their body language whenever possible.

When speaking to locals in Chechnya, I displayed less Russian-ness and more American-ness. Did everything to show nonverbally that I am not a Russian – or at least, not like standard Russian oppressors. In contrast, when meeting Russian soldiers I employed Russian body language and dropped references to locations in Moscow. Which made them feel I was a friendly.”

“Well, you did that well enough to gain a substantial reputation for reporting,” Naz said as she entered the kitchen. “But who are you actually?”

Naz folded her arms and waited for a response. She was watching for bad vibes from her new leader. Naz had decided to trust Stacy earlier on. Not just because her Benefactors wanted it, but also because Naz appreciated Stacy’s courageous, compassionate and balanced reporting on a much-maligned neighboring ethnic group. But Naz had never met Stacy before; she had no reason to be sure that this woman on board the MMM was truly the real life journalist.

Stacy looked Naz in her eyes.

“I’m myself. A person who has multiple claims on her identity.”

This sounded insufficient, so Stacy added, “And no overwhelmingly strong single identity.”

Turning back to Marilyn, Stacy continued: “What if hostile investigators from Petrovka 38 picked me up and wanted me to prove that I am Russian? I might not even able to convince them that I am Russian. I don’t really know what born-and-bred Slavic Orthodox Russians are supposed to be like.

I’m always a mix, never a pure something. Even if I may naturally count like an American, I don’t dress like one. Not even my natural body language could remain consistent enough to convince anybody I’m of a single identity.”

Stacy touched her dirty blonde hair with its light brown and its blonde streaks. Slid a finger to her narrow hazel eyes, and then touched her high cheekbones.

“I’m an admixture, and I carry this with me everywhere I go. Can never hide this. When you look into my eyes you can’t miss it.

So to me, body language is something that I put on consciously. Like the language or vocabulary I use. Or the clothes I wear. In order to communicate with people around me.”

Riley leaned forward against a door jamb.

“Then who do you really think you are? Surely there is something consistent?”

“My principles and values are consistent. And my actions are based on these. I think these define me more than my looks or dress or body language.”

When Stacy finished, she waited a little nervously for somebody to respond. She was mentally prepared for a negative reaction, even if she didn’t really think her teammates were intolerant people. Many people are skeptical and suspicious of anybody who seems to lack a definitive, fixed identity.

Naz broke the silence.

“Makes sense to me,” she said and put her hands on her hips. “I also have grandparents from four different regions. I also understand that makeup, dress, and body language change from region to region. I also adjust when I go from Sakartvelo to Kuban to Ukraine.”

Riley nodded her head in acknowledgement, even though she didn’t do the same thing. Riley didn’t change her body language or accent or dress; she just kept a low profile everywhere she went. Since she always had a sense of ‘Lithuanian-ness’ about her. It might be a heightened sense of ethnic awareness instilled by family since young. She didn’t want to change her body language or looks, so she would rather stand at a distance, hide in shadows or behind other obstacles. Even now, Riley remained outside the kitchen proper. She wasn’t being standoffish; it was just natural to Riley.

Angel entered the room and stood beside Naz. “Well, I also come from multiple ethnic backgrounds. But I’m always the same. No changing anything no matter where I go, no matter what company I’m in.” Angel shrugged her shoulders. “That said, I understand where you’re coming from, Stacy. If you’re like me, you might get into fights. I’m the fighting type but you’re not.”

Marilyn entered, smiling. “Naz, you didn’t mention Udmurtia just now? Wasn’t your grandmother from there?”

“Yes. But I don’t know much about Udmurtia actually,” Naz replied. “Don’t know what customs or accent to employ.”

“You could wear a headscarf,” Angel was imagining rural Russia.

“Nyet! Red hair is a proud characteristic of Udmurts. If I go to Udmurtia, I must show all locals my hair!”

Why no mayo?

“Say, I have been wondering about something for the past few days,” Marilyn said.

“Go ahead,” Stacy replied. Although Marilyn had spoken generally, Stacy sensed that she was the best person to answer this question.
“Why is there no mayo on the table?”

…

“In the Soviet Union, mayonnaise had been hard to get,” Angel reflected. “Now that our societies are capitalist, it seems as though many eating establishments and cooks like to stock up on mayo.”

“I understand this,” Stacy said. “My family organized a few shipments of mayo back to the Soviet Union, packed in a lot of small jars.”

“Did you sell these for profit?” Naz asked.

“I know mayo was expensive. But although we organized shipments of mayo back to the USSR, we have never sold any.”

“Never?”

“These were used as payments for various favors, to trade for other things, and so on.”

Naz smiled. “Ah, I understand that. Cameras and cars are big items. Mayo would be useful as small change.”

“I read somewhere that the average Russian uses 2.5kg of mayo a year,” Stacy commented. “I probably used to consume under a tenth as much. And that’s entirely from eating out, social gatherings and so on where I can’t control the food served. My family has never stocked mayo at home that we weren’t intending to trade for something else.”

This astonished her teammates even more. Now everybody was staring at Stacy.

Russians were famous for their love for mayonnaise. But a number of days had passed since they boarded the MMM together, and Stacy had yet to take any mayonnaise out from the stores. She hadn’t mentioned mayo at all.

This was very weird to everybody else.

“Say, do you really want mayo?” Stacy turned towards the pantry. “I can’t remember where they’re kept, but when going through the stores, I did see several bottles.”

Marilyn’s eyes got bigger. “That’s even worse! A Russian who didn’t even try to take out the mayo already supplied in the pantry!”

Suddenly, Riley came in to defend Stacy. It wasn’t clear why Riley would want to do this, but possibly Riley had remembered that most people associated Lithuanians with a love of sour cream. Riley wouldn’t enjoy being pigeonholed with sour cream either. She had already drawn everybody’s attention, by being the only person who drank vodka.

“Do you think the food these few days required any mayo?”

“Actually, no,” Angel said. “And I am perfectly happy with not eating low quality food where the cook uses mayonnaise to mask the bad taste.”
Looking at her teammates, Angel added, “while covering up garbage food. I ate enough mayo in my school canteen for a lifetime.”

“I eat very little mayo,” Naz said. “But that’s considering what I can get in my home country. On board this ship, I have been quite comfortable with the food to date, but I am just that little bit worried about the food during winter. Stacy, I think you know what you’re doing. I truly do not want to eat like an average Soviet citizen.”

Food and Nutrition Discussion

The talk about mayo brought Stacy to a closely related topic. As the ship’s cook, she thought it was good to start a conversation about this.

“I don’t really want to use mayo because I feel it’s cheating,” Stacy said. “Mayo was just a cheap way of getting past poor food; a habit from poorer times. We should be eating more fresh stuff, more fruits, more veggies. If we can source fresh foods, there is no point to having mayo on the table.

We don’t have to stick with bad Soviet era eating habits. We can make a change, and let’s start here. Now.”

Stacy spoke earnestly, but she was a little worried also. She didn’t want to be seen as pushing something onto her teammates. If they refused, Stacy was certainly obliged to find other ways of suasion. But fortunately everyone was intelligent and open minded.

“I am not a fan of bad Soviet eating habits,” Angel was first to speak. “I know we can be doing better, but I just don’t know how.”

“Let’s break the bad old habits,” Naz agreed. “I see this all the time. In Sakartvelo, we’re fairly adventurous eaters. People eat quite well. But just go a bit north and food starts going downhill. Southern Russia and Eastern Ukraine are not that far away from the rest of the world. European supermarket chains are setting up, and they can provide better. Let’s use better.”

Despite being normally quite anti-Soviet, Riley opted for a more nuanced approach.

“Soviet eating habits were poor, but that was because of the cold weather. People needed lots of calories, fast. It is only in recent times – with good heating and clothes and a mainly indoor lifestyle – that we can afford the luxury of going for less fatty diets.”

Eating lots of salad was a luxury Riley could afford when living in Lithuania. But if the ZIL team was going to be traveling in Russia even during winter… it was going to be very cold. Even if you could get fresh leafy greens in some supermarket, it wouldn’t provide much energy.

“Never be stingy with fat,” Angel recalled her grandmother’s words aloud. “It’s normal for Kazakhs to cook with all the animal fat on hand. And generously salted too! But I’m well read enough to know that it’s not ideal.”

“We can’t keep eating like traditional Turks,” Marilyn voiced out. “Too much meats, carbs, fat, salt, sugar. Fried stuff. Life expectancy is lower than it could be, with just a change in diet.”

“Stacy, how about you articulate your food philosophy?” Naz asked. “I like to know more about it.”

“My food philosophy? It’s a hybrid, like myself,” Stacy said. “Mix of Soviet and free market economics. It’s about survival, making the best use of available resources and finding an ecological niche.”

Stacy went on to explain that she did not depend on any single culture or culinary tradition. “I make food with what I have, and with what I can get. I try to be healthy, work within a reasonable budget, and limit my environmental footprint.”

“I recall that Atatürk was big on beans, veggies, yoghurt,” Marilyn commented. “That’s way better than our Central Asian eating customs. And should fit your philosophy fine too.”

“Naz?” Stacy asked. She was most concerned that Naz might have strong food preferences.

“It’s all right,” Naz said. “I don’t really dislike your food. So far your cooking has been way more edible than anybody’s canteen food or workplace cafeteria food.”

Stacy let out a little sigh of relief.

“It’s not comparable to the offerings in a good restaurant of course,” Naz continued without holding back. “But in general I do appreciate your cooking. There’s thought and creativity put in, it’s healthy enough, and nothing really tastes bad or disgusting.”

“Call me a barbarian with no experience of good food, but I do like all the variety,” Angel said.

“There isn’t much salt or oil though,” Marilyn said. “I notice you stay away from red meats?”

“We have plenty in the freezer,” Stacy said. “But I do prefer to keep our diets low on red meat. It’s more environmentally friendly, and more healthy.”

“Uzbek food prepared by professionals will be better than this,” Marilyn said. “But you’re talking about people’s weddings or going out to a nice restaurant. And of course, lots more red meat. Your standard is still vastly above the standard of the goop they serve in barracks or government run places. So as far as I am concerned, this is a huge step up.”

Marilyn gave everyone a big smile, then continued, “but of course, I think we should still not hesitate to eat out when we have the chance. I think Stacy is really not keen on doing deep fried or greasy food.”

“I will do deep fried. But not on a daily basis.”

“Actually, there is nothing against us doing deep fried ourselves,” Naz pointed out. “Since we do prepare suppers in rotation.”

“Well, there’s no way an ordinary school canteen or workplace dorm is ever going to make food like how Stacy does it,” Angel said. “And there’s plenty of processed freezer stuff to deep fry if we ever want to.”

“I’m comfortable with Stacy’s fusion cooking on a regular basis. We can definitely give ourselves more variety if we want to,” Riley agreed.

The consensus seemed to be that everyone was all right with Stacy’s cooking.

“And you, Marilyn? If you are missing mayo, we do have it in the stores. So feel free to take a look and grab the mayo if you’d like that,” Stacy said.

Marilyn thought for a second, and decided no. Stacy’s cooking had not been exactly what she expected, but it wasn’t actually bad.

“We’ve put Soviet autarky behind us. Now our supplies are sourced from many places. Let’s try out what the world has to offer us,” Stacy concluded.