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WHENEVER: Ice, oysters, and other small mollusks were not invented by humans. But they were among the first things humans figured out how to eat. And that were good for them. And didn't require farming. Aziraphale didn't mind that humans were basically eating sea detritus. All of it was delectable, all of it was inevitable, all of it was, dare he even say, ineffable. What really mattered about the whole question was that he looked, truly looked, at Crowley.
And Crowley said with such ridiculous not-Fallen innocence, I only wondered, and no, I've never had one, and then why should I have if you weren't there?
17,00 BC: Rice and millet were not very interesting without seasoning.
Some idiot was getting his arm caught in a millet-machine (Crowley never much liked to know the exact names of things), when Aziraphale shouted "No!" and then spluttered, and then waved his hand around like it was going to mean something, and it did.
It always did. It always did, and the millet machine problem was solved. The man just had a hand that would hurt in a kind of weird way forever, because no matter how many things the angel could miracle right in the universe, he couldn't reverse the space-time continuum, could he?
10,000 BC: Almonds, and therefore almond flour. Humans had not quite figured out gluten allergies yet, but they had figured out making flour from more than a couple of substances, and Crowley liked progress not just because it led to new things for him to speak with the angel about, but it also led to new things the angel wanted to tell him. As far as Crowley could tell, being told something might very well be the best sensation in the world.
And Crowley liked The World, as a capital letters entity. He might even have loved it, and loved it too much to want to see it hurt.
6,500 BC: Humans finally came up with a name for both apples and crabapples. Crowley was too busy rolling his eyes to acknowledge that his angel finally had a word for one of his favorite fruits. And immediately created a pie about it, to boot. Crowley would defer calling Aziraphale his "favorite fruit" for the foreseeable.
It didn't hurt any less.
5,000 BC: "I just, I wanted you to know," said Aziraphale, "that they've invented something down there."
"What?" drawled Crowley.
"Er, it's something I would rather prefer to show you than tell you, if you get my meaning." The angel beamed at him as if it might solve everything, and it might, thought Crowley, it absolutely might.
"Let's assume that this does solve everything. Let's assume it's the most amazing substance the history of the world has ever encountered. Give it to me. Shove it in my face. How good, exactly, is this newest--"
Aziraphale put a large portion of an avocado into Crowley's mouth, and his partner-in-everything shut up just as quickly as he had hoped.
2,000 BC: "They have done something absolutely magical," trilled Aziraphale.
Crowley tried so hard not to roll his eyes that they actually broke in half, and he had to miracle them back together. They were a bit fragile, what with the slitted pupils and the constant dilation. Generally, he didn't mind them. Generally, he was looking at Aziraphale. What else could a sentient being possibly want to look at? Only this perfectly kind, decent, dare he even say good, person, that's all. That's all anyone should ever want to see.
"What's it called, angel?" Crowley asked.
"Pasta," he said, sighing. "They invented something called pasta. My dear, will you go and try it with me?"
Crowley said yes, of course, and with a smile on his face.
And his heart broke. And it broke. And it broke.