Sam's vodka still looked like something out of a Rube Goldberg drawing. There were pipes and tubes and glass jars and jugs. Everything was rigged up by string over burners and counter tops. The whole thing had to be disassembled and reassembled every time she used it, or no one would be able to use half of the kitchen. As a whole, Sam tried not to be that person. A dick. Admittedly, it was a habit that came to her naturally in most arenas of her life. But she had surprisingly excellent kitchen etiquette.

Especially for someone who couldn't eat.

She missed eating, as of late. Comfort food, really. A bag of Cheetos or a nice, hot bowl of her mother's Matzo-ball soup. Anything to clear her mind. She was working on her second batch of the day, her eyes following the glittery, shining bubbles as they traveled along her patchwork distillery. There was an art and a beauty to it, but Sam couldn't fully appreciate it today.

It was just that she was so fucking distracted. Stupid Danny. Stupid hot springs.

In the most affectionate way, of course.