Sol 21
Hi Darcy,
So what does an astronaut with nothing to do but farm do in his off-hours, you ask? And no, the answer is not raid Beck’s infirmary and get high on whatever pharmaceuticals he has in there. (I’ve thought about it, though…)
No. I get to watch your sister-in-law’s crappy taste in TV.
I got through all of the anime you made me bring before we even got to Mars. Figured I’d blow through it all again while I was here, then suffer on the way back. But since I’m going to be on Mars longer than expected, I’m rationing.
Rationing anime. Who’d have thought?
In between Attack on Titan, though, I get to suffer through your sister-in-law’s seventies obsession...
Darcy, did good taste skip your brother, or does he suffer through endless Three’s Company reruns too? I’m not sure which scenario scares me more., Commander Lewis being married to someone who shares her taste in pop culture, or your poor brother suffering in, well, not silence, I’m pretty sure, but… hell, just stop me now. I don’t want to be the cause of any Lewis family discord.
Turns out it’s Thanksgiving today - I wonder if you spent it with my parents or with Rich - or both? I hope you had pumpkin pie. And mashed potatoes.
Which brings me to my other bit of news - vital to me, probably boring to everyone else. I’m going to be a potato farmer! See, the other thing I’ve been doing since the last letter I wrote you, other than shitting, bringing a metric fuck-ton of Mars earth into the Hab, and watching 70s reruns, has been doing math.
Deeply depressing, plug numbers into a calculator and crunch out calculation after calculation, math. Not the pretty calculus kind you like, princess. But hey, working out how many calories are in a potato and how many potatoes I need to grow to survive is important. So this monkey enters more numbers in the calculator. So far, it’s looking… not good. But better.
My main problems are soil surface and water. Still working on how to get more water - no Rain Man jokes, please. But I’m making progress on the soil. I keep shitting, anyway. And there are as yet un-farmed stretches of tabletop and bunk. And I’m sure there are other things I’m missing.
Still working on surviving to get back home.
Have a happy Thanksgiving. Eat lots of pie for me.
Love you, princess.
The duet-grubbing peon known as Mark.