Its mate, sticking to the spoon in her right hand, is a golden frying pan, full of the rich, enduring yellow of eggy Hollandaise.
His nose feels that signature need for release again and he caves to it, puntastically enough, his nosebone warming to the needs of nature and beasts as he sniffles once more.
The girl then turns to the last pot, a black iron cauldron filled with the deep-bubbling perfection of dark red with green bits in. A comely tomato sauce.
Of course, he breathes, his mind stepping out of the memory and back into the console room.
His shins are draining into the pan like a halfway decent rendering of beef.
Alchemy can be fun, too, he thinks, as he sneezes for the third and final time, the germs travelling light years as a bit of him settles in every pot.
He opens his Fleshy eyes again; he is back inside the TARDIS.
“A dirty business, but it had to be done,” he murmurs, resting in pooled contentment on the nice thick cushion of the big and favorite chair, “…do you approve, Dear?”