If you have something against the menu, like every enlisted man and woman isn't completely disgusted by the drivel they pass off for standard fare on the ships. Like any sane person wouldn't object to their selection; gruel which -- even on its best days -- is tacitly nauseating. Even still, he can't allow Encke to cook for him. Not when he's already going to some rather staggering extremes to look after Keeler's health, and for reasons that Keeler still cannot quite work out.

Let alone the depressing fact that Keeler isn't even sure what dishes he prefers anymore. He's lived on nutrition bars and protein blends and plain rice for so long, even the Sleipnir's regular hot menu comes as something of a treat. Whatever is fastest and easiest to consume in his office between drills, or midway through whatever tech spec blueprints he's pouring himself into on that particular evening.

"You don't have to do that," Keeler demurs, and it comes with the sudden realization that Encke really is far better than he deserves. "I'll... start joining you in the mess hall, I think. Get myself on a schedule. That'll help, right?"

There's silence for a moment, thoughtful, and Keeler savors off half his chocolate in its midst.

"...I used to like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches," he murmurs, at some length. "With sliced bananas and honey. And that rainbow cereal they sold back on the colonies. They stopped making it when we were ten. Do you remember it?"