Bacon and eggs. One of the best ways to wake up. Even down here. Too bad we're out of coffee. Those bulbous yellow roots make something passable anyway. Even if'n I have to boil them three times after they've roasted in the cook-fire coals overnight. Coffee isn't supposed to be yellow, but with enough honey, they don't complain too much, so long as they don't know where the honey comes from. At least not within my hearing. I'm starting to kind of like the aroma of the stuff. Reminds me of turmeric and ginseng. But not quite either.
We're just about out of eggs. I never expected us to go through two crates-full on this trip. I also never counted on re-filling the egg-crates twice now with those things that the boss calls eggs. I don't care who you think you are, things cut out of the belly of some worm aren't really eggs. Ova, yes. Eggs, no. Hell no. But there's no arguing with the boss.
She's a real slave-driver that one. Mean, too. When she's hungry. Nothing a few biscuits and beans can't fix. Especially how I make 'em. Too bad we lost my still back at that lagoon place. Hated to leave it behind, but the natives weren't gonna let me go back for it. Not and keep my skin intact. And I'm rather partial to my own skin.
We've got three bottles of hootch left. No one knows that but me. I hope it's enough. I have the sneaking suspicion that it won't be. Especially as we're eating these things the boss insists on calling eggs. Damn things don't scramble worth a damn. Not without a shot of hootch in the pan. Need a solvent to break down the membranes. Liquor works. Might have to try vinegar one of these mornings. Hate to waste all the hootch we have left on these eggs. Who ever heard of pink eggs anyhow? Pink. Not even the good pink of partly cooked meat. Even the flapjacks and fry-cakes come out pink from using these so-called eggs. Anyone gives me one word of guff about it and I'll brain 'em with my second-best cast iron pan. The heavy one.
At least we've got bacon now. I think it's bacon. I cut it from the right part of the animal, just like I was taught. Like I've been doing for longer than half these little shits have been alive, a lot longer than most of them are ever going to live to see.
It fries-up like bacon. Sizzles. Pops. Real fatty stuff. I've smoked a couple of good-sized slabs. Salted some too. But I've gotta be careful not to use-up all the salt. We haven't found any down here. Outside of that greenish crap that smelled wrong. That was a weird place. A dead, green, salt sea buried six miles down. That's what the cartographer says. I'm not sure how he knows how deep we are, but the boss trusts him, so I keep quiet about it. Even if I do think he's just pulling his numbers out of his arse. Never trust one of those albino-like bastards. That's what my old ma always told me. Right up until they took her away. That was a nasty business. I still have her recipe book in my chest. Locked and buried underneath old drawers so no one will get any too curious. Used to keep a de-fanged snake in there with it, but the fool thing got crushed after we went over a waterfall. It would've drowned, too, but it was crushed first. Now I just let 'em think that I still have a snake in there. Since I skinned it, I sort of do still have one on-hand, after a fashion. Sometimes the idea is more effective than the reality.
It's funny how the boss knew all about the piggies down here. Big, fat, shaggy things. Mostly blind. Real docile, mostly. Strange splayed-out hooves, but definitely pigs. She says that her people have been raising them down here instead of cattle. They root around, eat fungus and stuff. Clean up garbage. Pretty useful creatures. Tasty, too. If'n you haven't seen some of the larger one walking around on their hind feet.