Kiss The Cook


by Mylochka and Cheryl Petterson

(Standard Year 2249)

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PART TWO

Origination: U.S.S. Enterprise
                   NCC 1701
                   Medical
                   Dr. Jade Han - P-3038752/MED
Terminus: Starbase 7
                  Engineering
                  Ensign Robin Thomas - T-9181622/ENG

##########PERSONAL#####PERSONAL#####PERSONAL##########

Sorry for the delayed response, but I am only now getting an opportunity to catch up on my personal correspondence. Since we are on our way to a destination that is, of course, classified, this communiqué may reach you after other messages that I may compose after we leave classified zones do. Apologies in advance for any scrambling of my timeline that may result.

First -- I am very happy to hear that you are pleased with your new supervisor. Give my regards to Commander Morgan. I knew the two of you would work together well.

In response to your question – how does life on a starship suit me? First and foremost, I am struck by the intimacy of shipboard life. Seen as a community, a crew is a remarkably self-contained --and in our current mission -- incredibly isolated little society. Perhaps the most secluded and self-sufficient one that I have ever been a part of.

I can see you smiling at this and asking, “More isolated than the Goshzak people of Northern Andor?”

Although the physical circumstances of these two micro-cultures differ greatly, I am struck by the similarities. The comparison is made all the more sharp by the fact that with the Goshzak, I was an observer. Here, I am an active member.

I don’t remember where I first heard it said, but I’ve been told more than once that life aboard a starship is like living in a small town with one bar. Since I have never lived in a small town with one bar – even the Goshzak had three taverns and an inn – I can’t attest to the precise accuracy of this truism. Life here does remind me, however, of a school I attended that required all students to eat in one of the three cafeterias on campus. It is, on one hand, that stiflingly insular, but on the other charmingly intimate and invigoratingly social.

After the cutthroat environment of the Surgeon General’s office, it is a relief beyond measure to leave a world where petty grievances and jealousies become hardened into political posturing that can result in policies that endanger the health of billions on thousands of planets. Here, I live in a community where personal conflicts remain personal and rivalries can be resolved by cooking contests.

Yes, I said cooking contests.

My first, large scale initiative on the Enterprise in my capacity as its Chief Psychologist is management of a cooking contest.

Laugh away, my dear.

Since none of my degrees nor fieldwork extensively covered either cooking or contests, I cannot avow that I am doing more than an adequate job as supervisor. However, if we get through this one with a minimum of bruised egos and cases of ptomaine poisoning, results to date have been interesting enough to prompt me to consider writing a paper advocating the use of such competitions generally throughout the Fleet.

So, in summary, how does life aboard this starship suit me? Very well… so far.

See you on the other side, my dear Robin!

##########ENDIT#####ENDIT#####ENDIT##########

1/8~ 1/4 ~ 1/2 ~ 2/3 ~ 3/4 ~ 1 ~ 3/4 ~ 2/3 ~ 1/2 ~1/4 ~ 1/8

“You sick?”

“Uhmm...” Noel DelMonde paused at the door of the Chief Surgeon’s office, regretting his decision to come. “No, sir.”

McCoy peered at him irritably from over the top of his monitor. “Then what are you doin' in Sickbay, son?”

“Uhmmm...” Del had forgotten momentarily how much he disliked doctors. Every time you moved, their minds filled with a thousand different things that might be killing you. “ It jus' that... They got me roped into that damn fool cookin' contest...”

“Ah, I see...” The doctor smiled and images of the new (and very attractive) Chief of Psychology filled his thoughts. “ And?”

“An'... uhmmm...” Surgeons were the worst. They could not seem to help looking at a man the same way a butcher might size up a prize heifer. “I was t'inking 'bout makin' a bread pudding.”

“Mmmm...” McCoy’s memories filled with Southern dinners so scrumptious he could almost smell them.

“An' I need some un-re-constituted whiskey fo' th' sauce.”

“Oh?” the doctor replied, not unkindly, but without making any offer.

“An' they tell me you keep a good liquor cabinet.”

“That's true enough.” McCoy gave a little laugh as he pulled two glasses out of a shelf behind him. “Noel DelMonde -- as close to being the poet laureate of Starfleet as we're gonna get -- comes to my office to borrow a cup of whiskey. “

Despite his best efforts, Del felt his cheeks coloring at that ‘poet laureate’ bit. “Guess that 'bout th' size of it.”

“Seems a fitting introduction.” The doctor gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down.”

“Well, I...”

“You'll want to sample from a few bottles to make sure the taste is right, won't you?” McCoy asked, opening a panel that revealed a very respectable stock of bottles with shapes and labels as familiar to Del as a gathering of old, dear, dear friends. “I'm assuming quality matters to you. Otherwise I'm sure one of your colleagues could have supplied you with a little rotgut to fill the bare requirements of the recipe.”

“Taste does make a difference...” the Cajun admitted, careful to refrain from drooling as the doctor opened a bottle of fine Kentucky bourbon. The fragrance escaping from the amber liquid as it tumbled into the glass was sweeter to Del than the most precious perfume could ever hope to be.

“Sit down,” the doctor ordered, holding the glass hostage until he was obeyed. “Where I'm from, it's a sin to drink good liquor standin' up. Betrays undue haste, misplaced priorities and a general lack of refinement.”

“I not disposed t' argue wit' you on any o' those points, sir,” the engineer conceded.

“Good man.” The surgeon rewarded him with a glass and then poured one of his own. “Cheers.”

A votre santé,” Del blessed his benefactor. He closed his eyes and let the lovely liquid melt its way down his throat. There was a warm, embracing quality of real liquor that even the very best reconstituted substitutes could never quite capture.

Without opening his eyes, he could tell the doctor was grinning. “How's that hittin' you, Mr. DelMonde?”

“Right where I live, sir,” the Cajun confessed. “Right where I live.”

“They told me you were a drinkin' man, lieutenant."

“I s'pose that true enough,” the engineer admitted, taking another long lingering sip of amber elixir.

“Considering that you knew we were heading out into a virtual space desert on our way to our mission at the galactic core and considering your obviously well-cultivated appreciation for the distiller's art, I'm surprised you didn't provision yourself accordingly.”

“Well, sir, I did,” DelMonde replied, the loving caress of the bourbon making him feel generous with the truth. “However, as sometimes happens wit' drinkin' men, I done drunk it all.”

The surgeon nodded sympathetically. “Had yourself a nasty shock when you come on board, didn't you?”

The engineer’s eyes narrowed, warning his host that there were limits on how much friendship a glass of bourbon was going to buy. “You could say that.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant, but living in a tin can with 438 people...” McCoy shrugged apologetically. “Word gets around.”

“Happy that people have enough leisure in they busy schedules t' squeeze in sometime fo' consideration o' my problems,” the Cajun replied acidly.

“Look at it this way, DelMonde. For most of us, the only big excitement we can foresee for ourselves this week is hoping we get our quarterly reports in on time. For you, the next hour or two might involve an impromptu screaming match with an Antari demi-goddess triggered by something as seemingly insignificant as the ill-timed arrival of a turbo lift. When it comes to drama, lieutenant, at the moment you've got the majority of us outclassed.”

“Glad I can be so entertainin',” the engineer retorted, bitterly biting back the urge to assert that none of that shit had been his fault. He had not been the one screaming…well, not the one who started the screaming… And that a man had every right to defend his good name when he heard it being dragged through the mud…well, overheard… well, overheard mentally… but still…

“No, you're not,” McCoy contradicted, refreshing his glass.

“No, I not,” DelMonde affirmed, accepting it gratefully.

“Well,” the doctor philosophized as he leaned back in his chair. “Into each life some rain must fall.”

“I guess so,” the Cajun mumbled glumly into the inviting glass.

“And, as they say, there's no accounting for taste.”

“No, they sure as fuck not,” the engineer agreed bitterly before remembering that the point-ear computer Ruth had taken up with probably had a lot more friends here than he did. “Beggin' your pardon, sir.”

“No offense taken,” the doctor replied genially. Del could see from his thoughts that McCoy had a remarkably complex relationship with Ruth’s Vulcan beaux. They had what could honestly be called a friendship that had weathered many angry words and existed despite a certain degree of what had to be identified as mutual loathing. “I'm sure I would be livid if I were in your shoes.”

“I not give a damn no more,” Del replied, dissolving the bitter taste of sorrow in this mouth in another warm infusion of bourbon. “To hell wit' both of 'em.”

“They do seem crazy about each other,” McCoy said, part as an expression of his opinion and part as a test of the depth of Del’s pain.

“I agree wit' the crazy part,” the Cajun agreed defiantly.

“So you're just going to wish them well and go your own way?” Even in conversation the surgeon’s probes cut deep.

Pointedly leaving out the first part of the doctor’s suggestion, the engineer agreed, “I jus' gonna go my own way.”

“Don't lie to yourself, Del,” McCoy advised, pitiless but kind. “Do you mind if I call you Del?”

“I not mindin' that,” the engineer warned.

“Wishing I'd skip the free advice, though?” The doctor chuckled humorlessly. “I know, I know. Trust me, I learned this speech from hearing it myself so many times…”

Del could feel the pain leak out of the surgeon like fresh blood trickling with aching vigor from battle wounds that should have been too old to bleed. He could see the scars on the doctor’s heart from lovers he’d walked away from and from those who’d walked away from him.

“...But here's the truth,” McCoy continued, pouring out a bit more good bourbon to ease the sting. “You're not over her until you look at her and are happy that she's found someone who makes her happy. That's when it's over... Not because you decide that it needs to be over because you're sick of hurting. God knows, I wish it worked that way... but it just doesn't, son.”

“Any more free advice on what I need t' do in the meantime?” Del growled less than graciously.

“Sure.” Unfazed, the surgeon grinned and propped his feet up on the edge of his desk. “Tons. First -- don't lie to yourself, but lie to whoever else you need to keep up a good front. A man doesn’t want to live a sham existence, but it doesn't solve anything to go to pieces.”

The engineer had to laugh a little at how much this counsel sounded like the sort of thing one of his uncles might have told him.

“Second -- never drink alone. Alcoholics drink alone,” the surgeon warned, pouring himself a generous measure. “A self respecting drinkin' man, on the other hand, tips a glass with scholars, philosophers, heroes, and poets. He offers them the benefit of his taste and experience while basking in the enlightening glow of their gifts. Thus saying, I would be more than obliged if you would stop by and share a drop of the true with me every once in a while so as to squelch possible rumors from springing up in this tin hen-house that the Enterprise’s chief surgeon is in any danger of becoming an alcoholic.”

Del shook his head, but the appeal of good liquor and someone who he could talk to who didn’t believe Ruth’s Vulcan walked on water was just too much to resist. Jer, he thought wryly, would approve. “I believe I might be able t' fit that into my schedule… from time t' time,” he agreed parsimoniously.

“I thought you might.” As McCoy turned and filled a flask with more bourbon than Del could possibly need to make five whiskey sauces, the Cajun caught a little whiff of triumph for the reliability of old-fashioned methods involving honesty, mutual respect, and good bourbon over the sort of fancy morale-boosting nonsense certain young psychologists with very nice legs might dream up…

“Well, thanks...” DelMonde said, standing as he accepted the flask. Honesty won out over pride and forced him to add, “…Fo' ever't'ing.”

“Oh, it's nothing.” The doctor’s grin broadened. “Besides, my peach cobbler is gonna wipe the floor with your sad little New Orleans bread pudding.”

“Oh, no,” Del groaned. “Don't tell me you in this cookin' shit too?”

“In it?” McCoy shook his head confidently. “I'm gonna win it.”

“Like hell,” the engineer replied with genial menace. “It on now, Georgia boy. It on. You best bring your 'A' game.”

“Ain't got nothin' else, son,” the doctor assured him as he exited.

1/8~ 1/4 ~ 1/2 ~ 2/3 ~ 3/4 ~ 1 ~ 3/4 ~ 2/3 ~ 1/2 ~1/4 ~ 1/8

“You've got to decide what you're going to be cooking for the cooking contest right away! “

Chekov blinked at his girlfriend who had appeared in the Rec room beside him seemingly out of nowhere. "There is going to be a cooking contest?”

The chemist made a strangled noise of frustration as if the two of them had been arguing for some time instead of having a completely unintelligible conversation for a few seconds. "Why would I tell that you have to decide what you're going to cook for the contest if there wasn't a cooking contest?”

“I do not know," her boyfriend replied dazedly. “Is there a cooking contest?”

A sharp smack against the back of his head convinced the navigator to reconsider his phrasing. "So there is going to be a cooking contest?"

“Yes.” Gollub sighed long-sufferingly as she took a seat opposite him as if she’d been explaining herself for days. “You know the 'I Hate Replicators' parties we have some times?”

"Oh?" The Russian smiled. These informal events were always a pleasure. "We are going to have an 'I Hate Replicators' dinner?"

Daffy rolled her eyes as if felt she was trying to explain astrophysics to an inattentive toddler. "Yes."

"Good."

"But it's going to be a cooking contest this time.”

Chekov nodded. "That is a creative idea. It should make it more interesting."

"Thank God." Gollub helped herself to a cup of coffee. "Something to relieve the intense and painful monotony of being on the slow shuttle to the center of the Dull-i-verse..."

"Daphne," the navigator chided, "The research we're doing is of utmost...”

“...Dullness," the chemist finished for him with another even more melodramatic sigh.

"When we arrive at the Galactic Core," he reminded her. “We will all be quite busy."

"But that’s weeks away. Weeks and weeks of uninteresting, bore-zillions hours of unending dullosity."

"The volatility of the region of space we are entering should provide some interesting challenges in navigation," Chekov offered.

The chemist suddenly clutched her ear. "Ow!"

"What is it, Dafshka?" the navigator asked, alarmed.

"A little piece of my ear died of boredom from just listening to you."

Chekov sighed. "Admittedly, unless there is catastrophic equipment failure, the navigational challenges should not provoke a great deal of general excitement. “

"Yes," Gollub clarified firmly to any malicious Powers-That-Be who might be kibitzing. "I'm not asking for catastrophic equipment failure level thrills here -- Just a little break in the routine."

The Russian chewed his lip thoughtfully. "So a cooking contest?"

“Yes,” the chemist confirmed for what was now finally starting to be multiple times.

He tilted his head to one side. "Are you going to enter this contest?’

“No, it's for men only.”

“Why?”

"I don't know. Maybe the people who thought it up are secret sexists. Maybe they long for more manly meals. Maybe they're afraid of getting girl germs in their food. Maybe it was suggested by a woman wishing to hide her lack of culinary expertise. Maybe they have a fetish for men in aprons," the chemist speculated in rapid succession. "Or maybe somebody noticed that the usual 'I Hate Replicators' parties tend to involve mostly women cooking while mostly men sit around waiting to be fed.”

"Oh," Chekov replied carefully, since he knew that he had been much more likely to be in the waiting category than the cooking category in all of the previous dinners he could recall on the spot.

"Yes, oh." his girlfriend said in a way that made him think she may have noticed this too.

“So the novelty should add interest.”

“One hopes. “

"Daphne," Chekov began slowly.

“Yes?”

“I do not think that I have prepared a meal any more complicated than buttered bread since I was eleven years old.”

“Well, you can follow a recipe, can't you?” the chemist countered, undaunted.

“I suppose...”

“Any idiot can follow a recipe,” Gollub asserted. “A recipe is a formula. You know -- A formula -- like science. You're not some kind of idiot who hates science, are you?”

“Certainly not!” the Russian denied stoutly.

“Then you can cook,” the chemist concluded triumphantly.

“I suppose there would be no harm in trying...” the navigator agreed slowly.

“Because the contest is to boost morale,” Gollub persisted. “And you don't want to sabotage morale, do you? Be a quitter, a loser, a kvetcher, a malcontent, a complainer, a misanthrope, a nudnik who dispirits and depresses your fellow crew members?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then you can cook.”

“I suppose...” The Russian frowned. “But the ingredients...”

“Yes?”

“The point of the 'I Hate Replicators' meal is that we are eating organic matter that has not been processed through the replicators.”

“Yes.”

“And the last stop we have on the schedule that would take us to a Federation outpost where we could obtain organic matter suitable for consumption would be the small planetoid in the J12 system. “

“Yes.”

“It is a planet without native sentient life,” Chekov objected. “Just very simple life forms. No native civilization. Just a Federation monitoring facility.”

Gollub shrugged. “Then they shouldn't mind if we pick up some vegetables.”

“It may require some improvisation to adapt recipes from our quadrant of the galaxy to what is available from the J12 post.”

“Yes,” the chemist confirmed, unimpressed.

“Which, I suppose, is what the cooks for the 'I Hate Replicators' parties frequently have to do,” Chekov concluded.

“Yes.”

“And we will arrive in less than 45 hours,” Chekov said, beginning to tally up the extensive list of preparations he’d need to make.

“Yes!”

Bozhe moi! I need to decide right away what I am going to cook for the contest!”

His girlfriend congratulated him with another smack to the back of his head. “That's what I told you in the first place.”

1/8~ 1/4 ~ 1/2 ~ 2/3 ~ 3/4 ~ 1 ~ 3/4 ~ 2/3 ~ 1/2 ~1/4 ~ 1/8

Noel DelMonde was surprised to find his cabinmate up past his bedtime, busily scrolling through pages of unfamiliar flora and fauna on his computer. “What you up to?”

Chekov barely glanced at him. “I am attempting to locate bio-identical matches for some of the ingredients on my list for..”

“Oh, hell!” the Cajun exclaimed disgustedly. “You not plannin' t' do that cookin' contest, too, are you?”

“Why not?” the Russian replied a little indignantly.

“It not seem like th' fact you can't cook gonna get in your way?”

“I may lack a certain degree of practical experience,” the navigator conceded, the gestured to the stacks of tapes on his desk. “However I can follow a recipe.”

Del snorted as he headed for his bunk. “I bet you can.”

“So?”

“When you were little, I bet you played one o' them follow th' numbers paintin' games a couple times, non?”

“Certainly. And?”

“An' that not make you Van Gogh, now did it?”

Chekov dismissed this excellent argument with an impatient shake of his head. “Winning is not really the point. It is intended to be a morale boosting exercise.”

“What the hell you need your morale boosted for?” DelMonde grumbled, pulling off his boots. “You already as chipper as a damned chipmunk. Your morale get much more boosted an' they gonna have to tie you down so you not be tap dancin' on the consoles all day.”

The Russian shrugged. “These extended scientific missions do get a bit tedious at times...”

“It scare me to hear you say that.”

“Why?”

DelMonde tossed his boots to a spot near the closet. “Considerin' th' amount o' dull you able to tolerate -- an' even enjoy-- the level o' boredom from somet'ing that even you call ‘tedious’ is bound to be killin' normal folks off like flies wit'in the firs' few minutes.”

“We do have this cooking contest to look forward to, though,” the navigator replied optimistically. “Even Daphne is enthusiastic about it.”

Del gave a short laugh as he reached for his guitar. “I bet she is.”

The Russian frowned. “Why is that funny?”

“'Cause your ‘Daphne’ a bookmaker, born an' bred,” the Cajun replied, still amazed that his old drinking and screwing buddy from back in the day could wind up with someone so profoundly afflicted with a disposition that she herself would describe as 'too fucking nebbish to see beyond the end of his nose.' “She so much as see a couple fleas get into a starin' contest an' that girl gonna be figurin' out how to make bank on it.”

“Oh, that is true.” Chekov gave himself a little tap on the forehead for not thinking of this angle himself. “If it is a contest, there will be wagering. I should have realized... How did you...? Oh, yes. I keep forgetting that you were in the secret racing club with Daphne.”

Del sighed deeply. The fact that Chekov knew something about the existence of the Clave seemed far more sad and depressing than dangerous or threatening. “Yeah, we was in that ol' secret racin' club.”

“Doesn't seem like much of a secret if everyone seems to know about it,” the Russian said, turning back to his screen.

“Nope, it sure don't,” the Cajun agreed, checking the tuning of his bottom strings. “Jus' you knowin' 'bout is suckin' all th' cool outta it. You bring up the 'secret racin' club' once more an' it gonna be down to not'ing more t' me than a Wednesday night knittin' society.”

“So… Are you going to enter the cooking contest?”

The engineer sighed again. “It lookin' that way. Damn that Kam! He always able t' get me mixed up in the damnedest shit...”

“Who is Kam?”

“That your friend Sulu.” Del shook his head. “Sweet Mary, I never thought I live to see th' day when ol' Kamikaze was best chums wit' the most straight-laced, jacketed, borin' li'l fuckwit I ever met...”

“Was 'Kam' Sulu’s secret racing club name?” the Russian asked, ignoring the insult.

“Well, son, I could tell you, but accordin' to the rules o' the club, I'd have to kill you....” The Cajun paused to consider. “So I guess there no stop to me tellin' you...Yep, he was th' king o' th' secret sewin' circle... an' expert in needle-work, you might say.”

This witty piece of wordplay fell uselessly on deaf and unenlightened Russian ears.

“I am not too surprised that he would enjoy racing.” Chekov said, copying something down onto a pad. “He's very competitive at times...”

“So unlike you?” DelMonde retorted sarcastically.

“Perhaps we do have that in common.” The Russian conceded the point with a smile. “I am glad he talked you into participating in the contest, Noel.”

The engineer returned this goodwill with a frown as a matter of policy. “You feel like my morale need boostin'?”

“You don't seem in any danger of taking up tap dancing,” Chekov pointed out tactfully.

“Thank God fo' that.”

“Besides you are always boasting of your skill as a cook...”

“Boastin'? Motherfucker, I worked at one o' the best restaurants in New Orleans...”

“As a busboy,” Chekov deduced confidently.

Del narrowed his eyes. “What make you say that?”

“I know how old you are,” the Russian replied. “Your stories make the place where you grew up sound rather barbaric, but I assume they still had child labor laws.”

The Cajun frowned, then challenged, “What if I had a fake ID?”

Chekov paused as he considered his accumulated knowledge of the engineer’s habits and proclivities, then conceded the point with a nod. “You definitely were in possession of illegally manufactured identification documents.”

“Ha!”

“However,” the Russian continued thoughtfully. “As you yourself have so often pointed out, even the best forgery benefits from a lack of scrutiny. If this restaurant was as impressive as you say, I would assume that competition for the position of chef would be intense. You would require not only a fake id, but a fake resume with fake references who could be contacted and could convincingly impersonate respected and known professionals... In contrast, if you were seeking a position at a much lower pay grade…”

“Okay, I was a busboy…” Del admitted grudgingly. “But I did work in th' kitchen sometimes. I was a waiter too... for 'bout a week. Seems like there somet'ing 'bout bein' the mayor o' New Orleans that makes a body t'ink he too good t' be told to shut th' fuck up an' eat his soup...”

The Russian nodded. “Hard to imagine.”

Del strummed a few aimless chords before deciding that there was no harm in asking, “I not s'pose you'd be agreeable to lookin' up a few items fo' me while you at it?

“Finding bio-matches for your recipes?” The Russian smiled at him the same way that a person might grin at a rescued kitten who was finally taking a few tentative licks at a bowl of milk. “I would be delighted... in the spirit of sportsmanship, of course.”

“Yeah, jus' t' give me a chance against your fuckin' formidable skills,” the engineer replied acidly enough to discourage that sort of 'rescued kitten' bullshit. He craned his neck to get a better view of the screen the navigator was examining. “Sweet Mary, what the hell is that?”

“This?” The navigator obligingly turned the monitor so he could get an unobstructed view of the slimy, squirmy plant/creature/blob pictured. “A type of native plankton, I think...”

“What the hell you usin' that for?”

“Beets... or cabbage...” Chekov tilted his head dubiously at the unappetizing hunk of animate goo. “Perhaps a combination of the two…”

DelMonde snorted. “'Gainst a culinary genius like yours, what chance do any o' us mere mortals stand?”

“You’re going to have to deal with the same,” the navigator warned.

“Oh, hell… Damn that Kamikaze!” The engineer made a sour face at the screen. “Maybe you ought to research some native indigestion remedies while you at it...”

“It does seem like a logical precaution,” his roommate agreed.

1/8~ 1/4 ~ 1/2 ~ 2/3 ~ 3/4 ~ 1 ~ 3/4 ~ 2/3 ~ 1/2 ~1/4 ~ 1/8

At the whistling of the comm unit on his desk, the Captain of the Enterprise reluctantly put aside his copy of Julius Caesar's De Bello Alexandrino. "Kirk here."

The attractive features of his Communications Officer appeared on the tiny screen. "Sorry to disturb you, Captain."

"What's the problem, Lieutenant?"

"Shore leave requests," Uhura replied, sounding like she was summarizing.

"Yes?"

"Well, sir, when you left the bridge, we had nine requests on file."

"And now?"

"One hundred and fourteen."

Kirk whistled, impressed. "Dr. Han's little contest seems to be catching on."

"Like a house on fire, sir," Uhura replied adamantly. "Captain, we had planned on only sending shore leave parties to the central station on the J12 outpost. However, there are two more research facilities where we could send people."

Kirk frowned, not remembering any installation that could remotely be considered a shore leave destination. "The population of the whole planet is under hundred people, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." Uhura nodded and consulted on offscreen source. "Forty-five at the central station. Twelve in the eastern facility and twenty-two in the oceanic platform. I'm counting visiting parties of scientists in those totals."

Kirk hoped the scientists were in the mood for some unexpected company. "Well, I'm sure it will be all hands on deck to man the fruit stands when we get there."

"Yes, sir. I'm also trying to compile a list of some of the most common ingredients our chefs are going to be looking for."

"I'm sure that will be very helpful, Lieutenant." Kirk shook his head as the notion of his unleashing half his crew on this unsuspecting isolated research station in a mad six hour scavenger hunt. "It's going to be like the California Gold Rush down there."

"Yes, sir."

"Alert the station master and run your idea by him," Kirk ordered. "We don't want to unduly inconvenience the researchers."

"Yes, sir." Uhura sighed heavily and looked offscreen at her board... which did seem unusually active for what should have been a routine duty shift.

"Is this cooking contest generating that much chatter, Lieutenant?" the captain asked sympathetically.

"I have been fielding a lot of unusual inquires, sir," she admitted.

"Such as?"

"Questions about Starfleet's policy on cooking with open flames..."

"If we don't have such a policy, draft one immediately and I'll sign it," Kirk decided quickly.

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant seemed relieved. "A negative stance on open flames?"

"Very negative, lieutenant," the captain confirmed.

"There have also been a certain number of requests to override codes that prevent the replicators from producing certain types of offensive weapons..."

"Weapons?" Kirk's eyebrows raised. "They're already shooting each other over this contest?"

"Not phasers, sir," the Communications Officer corrected quickly. "Specialized cutlery that the computer considers to be weapons-grade."

"I'm with the computer," Kirk replied. "No overrides. Tell them to stick to butter knives."

"Yes, sir." The captain shook his head.

"I had no idea the crew was so bored."

"I don't think it's boredom, sir," the Communications Officer replied. "Competition is getting pretty intense. National pride is at stake."

"National pride? Oh, no…” That thought did bring one of his officers immediately to mind. “Lieutenant, tell me this doesn't mean I'm going to be expected to eat borscht."

"It worse than that, sir."

"What could be worse than Chekov's borscht?"

"Scotty's trying to figure out how to make a haggis."

Kirk closed his eyes. "God preserve us from Jade Han's brilliant idea..."

"Amen to that, sir."

1/8~ 1/4 ~ 1/2 ~ 2/3 ~ 3/4 ~ 1 ~ 3/4 ~ 2/3 ~ 1/2 ~1/4 ~ 1/8

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