Originally posted on fanfiction.net - Link.
--------------------------------------
Cooking With Mariner
“I can’t believe I let you guys talk me into this,” Mariner sighed.
“Come on, don’t be so dramatic,” Boimler said working next to her. “You’re acting like you’re about to go through a Klingon Rite of Ascension ceremony.”
“I’d rather go through ten Rite of Ascension ceremonies than do this,” Mariner glared down at the collection of unfamiliar items arrayed at her station. “A cooking class? Seriously? Ugh, this is so lame.”
“What are you talking about? This is fun!” Tendi chirped at a cooking station positioned between Mariner and Rutherford. The four ensigns were in a long, galley-like room along with half a dozen other Cerritos personnel. “Nothing like learning a new skill to help stimulate one’s cerebral cortex. Right Rutherford?”
“I dunno,” Rutherford frowned while awkwardly measuring out some ingredients. “I love Science and all, but I’m really not much of a chemist. I’m more the mechanical type.”
“If only the instructor conducting this farce of a class was less the obnoxious type,” Mariner grumbled.
“That’s it, people. Let your unrestrained emotions pour into your food,” Lieutenant junior-grade Winger Bingston Jr. smiled strolling among the cooking stations acting as supervisor and teacher. “Embrace the symphony of scents and sights unleashed by your labors. Lose yourself in your work!”
“I know who I’d like to lose,” Mariner muttered under her breath. “Ugh, this is so stupid. We live in a replicator-saturated society. Why are we even doing this?”
“Because cooking is becoming a lost art,” Boimler explained while ricing some potatoes. “It’s a useful skill that is applicable in a wide variety of social, cultural, scientific and diplomatic situations. And it looks great on one’s official Starfleet record.”
“I should have known,” Mariner rolled her eyes. “This just another way for you to butter up your superiors. Literally.”
“Ha, shows what you know. This gnocchi recipe doesn’t even call for butter,” Boimler replied. “Unless I decide to make some garlic butter sauce…”
“Uh, is cake batter supposed to be this lumpy?” Rutherford blinked at his bowl. “Hmmm, maybe I should have tried doing something easier.”
“Don’t worry, Rutherford,” Tendi assured while casually dismembering a plucked Terellian pheasant. “I’m sure it will turn out just fine.”
“I hope so,” Rutherford watched her work. “Wow, you’re really good at this.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Tendi said modestly while expertly deboning the pheasant carcass. “Compared to performing microcellular surgery in Medical, this is child’s play.”
“If you say so,” Rutherford shrugged.
“It’s really amazing how certain skills can be utilized in other unrelated fields,” Tendi smiled while slicing sections of pheasant at lightning speed. “The same dexterity and precision required to wield a knife also applies to exoscalpels, autosutures, daggers, throwing spikes…”
“I see,” Rutherford nodded. “Wait, daggers and throwing spikes?”
“Oops!” Tendi gulped. “Um, did I say that? I meant writing styli and knitting needles. Don’t know why I mentioned those other things.” She began to laugh nervously. “Daggers and throwing spikes, how silly! It’s not like I was taught how to use either of those unnecessarily lethal types of bladed weapons from childhood or anything.”
“Uh, okey-dokey,” Rutherford blinked.
“This is so pointless,” Mariner moaned leaning against her cooking station. “Why waste all this time on meaningless food preparation when we can get whatever we want in two seconds from a replicator?”
“Because it’s worth it,” Boimler said whipping his riced potatoes into a dough. “Culinary arts are a filling experience which help make food taste like food instead of replicated protein molecules and textured carbohydrates.”
“This is replicated food!” Mariner pointed at various ingredients. “All this stuff literally came out of a replicator just a few minutes ago! You’re all just recombining replicated food in a futile effort to make it taste like real food! Do you really think all Starfleet vessels fly around carrying stocks of fresh foodstuffs?”
“I think you’re making a big deal over nothing,” Boimler frowned at his friend. “Not that you ever had any intention of taking this class seriously.”
“Hey, I chose a dish to make, didn’t I?” Mariner defended.
“Yeah, tacos,” Boimler pointed out. “Just tossing handfuls of already prepared ingredients on top of each other.”
“Hey, nobody said I couldn’t do something simple,” Mariner shrugged. “Of course, nobody told me I’d have to make the tortillas for tacos from scratch.”
“Come on, Mariner. Those tortillas aren’t going to form themselves,” Bingston Jr. scolded. “Start mixing that dough and work it!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mariner grumbled getting to work. “Man, this is harder than it looks.”
“You’re telling me,” Rutherford struggled with his lumpy cake batter. “Why won’t this stuff smooth out? I don’t know what to do! I’m not a cook. Wait, maybe my implant knows.” He cautiously tapped it.
Analyzing. Multiple icons and readings briefly filled Rutherford’s vision. Baking strategy optimized.
“O-kay,” Rutherford blinked before proceeding to swiftly mix and whip his cake batter like a pro. “Ha! Now this is what I’m talking about! Alright!”
“Great job, Rutherford!” Tendi beamed while dicing vegetables. “See, I knew you’d get the hang of it.”
“There, the gnocchi are finally formed,” Boimler sighed in relief. “Now to toss them in the pot…aaahhhhhh!”
“Hey, a little help here?” Mariner gulped as a giant blob of tortilla dough rapidly overflowed her and Boimler’s stations. “This stuff is crazy!”
“Hey, watch it!” Boimler yelped moving his uncooked gnocchi out of the way. “What did you do?”
“It’s not my fault!” Mariner protested while battling the dough with a rolling pin. “These ingredients are defective! I just added a teaspoon of yeast to the dough. Well, more like a cup…”
“You what?!” Boimler yelled. “You don’t put yeast in tortilla dough!”
“Really?” Mariner blinked. “I thought for sure the recipe called for it. It’s dough for crying out loud. Ugh, this stuff’s sticking to everything!”
“There! All set!” Rutherford poured his now smooth cake batter into a pan and placed it in the oven. “Now to whip up some frosting!”
“Back! Back, I say!” Mariner managed to batter and splatter her dough into submission. “There, it’s dead!”
“So is my appetite,” Boimler groaned at the mess. “Yuck, you got dough in my hair! Get it out!”
“Do it yourself. I’m busy here,” Mariner waved. “Now where’s the tortilla cutter?”
“There, all done,” Rutherford grinned removing his finished cake from the oven.
“Mmmm, that smells good,” Tendi smiled taking a sniff. “Wait, how did it cook so fast?”
“Oh, I used my implant to interface with the oven circuitry,” Rutherford explained. “I was able to reconfigure the heating element and improve its efficiency by having the cake bake evenly at the molecular level which made it finish in a fraction of the stated time. Ha, take that Laws of Thermodynamics!”
“YOU STUPID DOUGH! LEGGO OF MY HAND!” Mariner shouted as she vainly attempted to roll out tortillas. “NO, DON’T STICK TO THE FINISHED ONES! AAAGGGHHH!”
“Oh no, not again!” Boimler ducked as stray dough, flour and cooking utensils flew through the air. “You’re not supposed stack uncooked tortillas on top of each other.”
“I CAN SEE THAT!” Mariner screamed wailing away with her rolling pin. “DIE, DOUGH, DIE!”
“And I’ll add some frosting here and here and here and…” Rutherford’s hands flew over his cake in a blur. “There, ta-da!”
“Oooo!” Tendi marveled at the intricately formed cake shaped and decorated like the Cerritos. “It’s beautiful!”
“Very nice,” Bingston Jr. approved studying Rutherford’s creation. “Almost as good as some of my early masterpieces.”
“Ugh, I knew I should have worn a hair net,” Boimler moaned picking pieces of dough out of his hair. “I’ll going to a need a long, high-frequency sonic shower after this. At least I’ll be able to soothe myself with some semi-homemade gnocchi…”
“Outta the way, nerd!” Mariner shoved Boimler away from his station. “Woman on a mission coming through!”
“Hey, this is my cooking station!” Boimler protested. “Use your own!”
“Can’t. It’s covered in dough. The heating elements are all clogged up,” Mariner snapped. “I’m gonna finish making these stupid tortillas even if it kills me!”
“From the look of them, they just might,” Boimler blinked at the tray of misshapen tortillas. “Whew, what’s that smell?”
“Romulan whiskey,” Mariner showed him an empty bottle with a strange twitch in her eye. “I poured it over the tortillas to help lubricate and unstick ‘em. Along with downing a few shots to lubricate myself…”
“I should have known,” Boimler groaned.
“Don’t worry, Boims. I still have plenty left over for this,” Mariner quickly poured two more bottles of Romulan whiskey into a pot while cackling maniacally. “A quick dip in this will cook these evil tortillas once and for all! Give a little kick to ‘em too! Hahahahaha!”
“What?!” Boimler yelped. “You don’t cook tortillas by boiling them! You’re supposed to fry them!”
“That’s just what they want you to think!” Mariner ranted tossing the empty whiskey bottles over her shoulder before whipping out a phaser. “Now stand back! It’s flambé time!”
“NO!” Boimler screamed.
Meanwhile, in the corridor…
“What’s the status on today’s repair log?” Captain Freeman asked while walking down the hallway. “We can’t afford to venture into a potentially hazardous situation unprepared.”
“Nothing to worry about, Captain,” Commander Ransom replied. “Billups reported a few minor fluctuations in the ship’s fire suppression system. He took the whole thing offline in order to run a Level Two diagnostic. It should be back up within the hour. After all, it’s not that critical a system…”
FA-WHOOOOOOM!
“Aaahhhhhh!” Freeman yelped as the entire ship suddenly rocked from an explosion.
“Gaaahhhhhh!” Ransom wailed as a giant fireball blew off the doors of a nearby room before crushing him between them and a bulkhead. “Ohhh, my spleen…”
“What the heck?!” Freeman stared into the now doorless room. Everyone and everything inside was sprawled on the floor covered in burnt food and scorch marks. “What the devil happened in here?”
“Oooh, hello,” Bingston Jr. warbled with his uniform smoking in several places. “And I thought my one-man show was a blast…”
“Wow, guess cooking lessons are more hazardous than I thought,” Tendi blinked, dazed. “Oh look, birdies…”
“Ohhh, not again,” Boimler whimpered fingering his burned scalp. “My hair…my beautiful, beautiful hair…”
“My cake!” Rutherford wailed covered in frosting. “NOOOOOOOOO!”
“I told you guys we should have stuck to using replicators,” Mariner moaned.
“That’s it!” Freeman groaned. “No more cooking lessons on my ship!”
--------------------------------------
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek: Lower Decks.
--------------------------------------
Cooking With Mariner
“I can’t believe I let you guys talk me into this,” Mariner sighed.
“Come on, don’t be so dramatic,” Boimler said working next to her. “You’re acting like you’re about to go through a Klingon Rite of Ascension ceremony.”
“I’d rather go through ten Rite of Ascension ceremonies than do this,” Mariner glared down at the collection of unfamiliar items arrayed at her station. “A cooking class? Seriously? Ugh, this is so lame.”
“What are you talking about? This is fun!” Tendi chirped at a cooking station positioned between Mariner and Rutherford. The four ensigns were in a long, galley-like room along with half a dozen other Cerritos personnel. “Nothing like learning a new skill to help stimulate one’s cerebral cortex. Right Rutherford?”
“I dunno,” Rutherford frowned while awkwardly measuring out some ingredients. “I love Science and all, but I’m really not much of a chemist. I’m more the mechanical type.”
“If only the instructor conducting this farce of a class was less the obnoxious type,” Mariner grumbled.
“That’s it, people. Let your unrestrained emotions pour into your food,” Lieutenant junior-grade Winger Bingston Jr. smiled strolling among the cooking stations acting as supervisor and teacher. “Embrace the symphony of scents and sights unleashed by your labors. Lose yourself in your work!”
“I know who I’d like to lose,” Mariner muttered under her breath. “Ugh, this is so stupid. We live in a replicator-saturated society. Why are we even doing this?”
“Because cooking is becoming a lost art,” Boimler explained while ricing some potatoes. “It’s a useful skill that is applicable in a wide variety of social, cultural, scientific and diplomatic situations. And it looks great on one’s official Starfleet record.”
“I should have known,” Mariner rolled her eyes. “This just another way for you to butter up your superiors. Literally.”
“Ha, shows what you know. This gnocchi recipe doesn’t even call for butter,” Boimler replied. “Unless I decide to make some garlic butter sauce…”
“Uh, is cake batter supposed to be this lumpy?” Rutherford blinked at his bowl. “Hmmm, maybe I should have tried doing something easier.”
“Don’t worry, Rutherford,” Tendi assured while casually dismembering a plucked Terellian pheasant. “I’m sure it will turn out just fine.”
“I hope so,” Rutherford watched her work. “Wow, you’re really good at this.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Tendi said modestly while expertly deboning the pheasant carcass. “Compared to performing microcellular surgery in Medical, this is child’s play.”
“If you say so,” Rutherford shrugged.
“It’s really amazing how certain skills can be utilized in other unrelated fields,” Tendi smiled while slicing sections of pheasant at lightning speed. “The same dexterity and precision required to wield a knife also applies to exoscalpels, autosutures, daggers, throwing spikes…”
“I see,” Rutherford nodded. “Wait, daggers and throwing spikes?”
“Oops!” Tendi gulped. “Um, did I say that? I meant writing styli and knitting needles. Don’t know why I mentioned those other things.” She began to laugh nervously. “Daggers and throwing spikes, how silly! It’s not like I was taught how to use either of those unnecessarily lethal types of bladed weapons from childhood or anything.”
“Uh, okey-dokey,” Rutherford blinked.
“This is so pointless,” Mariner moaned leaning against her cooking station. “Why waste all this time on meaningless food preparation when we can get whatever we want in two seconds from a replicator?”
“Because it’s worth it,” Boimler said whipping his riced potatoes into a dough. “Culinary arts are a filling experience which help make food taste like food instead of replicated protein molecules and textured carbohydrates.”
“This is replicated food!” Mariner pointed at various ingredients. “All this stuff literally came out of a replicator just a few minutes ago! You’re all just recombining replicated food in a futile effort to make it taste like real food! Do you really think all Starfleet vessels fly around carrying stocks of fresh foodstuffs?”
“I think you’re making a big deal over nothing,” Boimler frowned at his friend. “Not that you ever had any intention of taking this class seriously.”
“Hey, I chose a dish to make, didn’t I?” Mariner defended.
“Yeah, tacos,” Boimler pointed out. “Just tossing handfuls of already prepared ingredients on top of each other.”
“Hey, nobody said I couldn’t do something simple,” Mariner shrugged. “Of course, nobody told me I’d have to make the tortillas for tacos from scratch.”
“Come on, Mariner. Those tortillas aren’t going to form themselves,” Bingston Jr. scolded. “Start mixing that dough and work it!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mariner grumbled getting to work. “Man, this is harder than it looks.”
“You’re telling me,” Rutherford struggled with his lumpy cake batter. “Why won’t this stuff smooth out? I don’t know what to do! I’m not a cook. Wait, maybe my implant knows.” He cautiously tapped it.
Analyzing. Multiple icons and readings briefly filled Rutherford’s vision. Baking strategy optimized.
“O-kay,” Rutherford blinked before proceeding to swiftly mix and whip his cake batter like a pro. “Ha! Now this is what I’m talking about! Alright!”
“Great job, Rutherford!” Tendi beamed while dicing vegetables. “See, I knew you’d get the hang of it.”
“There, the gnocchi are finally formed,” Boimler sighed in relief. “Now to toss them in the pot…aaahhhhhh!”
“Hey, a little help here?” Mariner gulped as a giant blob of tortilla dough rapidly overflowed her and Boimler’s stations. “This stuff is crazy!”
“Hey, watch it!” Boimler yelped moving his uncooked gnocchi out of the way. “What did you do?”
“It’s not my fault!” Mariner protested while battling the dough with a rolling pin. “These ingredients are defective! I just added a teaspoon of yeast to the dough. Well, more like a cup…”
“You what?!” Boimler yelled. “You don’t put yeast in tortilla dough!”
“Really?” Mariner blinked. “I thought for sure the recipe called for it. It’s dough for crying out loud. Ugh, this stuff’s sticking to everything!”
“There! All set!” Rutherford poured his now smooth cake batter into a pan and placed it in the oven. “Now to whip up some frosting!”
“Back! Back, I say!” Mariner managed to batter and splatter her dough into submission. “There, it’s dead!”
“So is my appetite,” Boimler groaned at the mess. “Yuck, you got dough in my hair! Get it out!”
“Do it yourself. I’m busy here,” Mariner waved. “Now where’s the tortilla cutter?”
“There, all done,” Rutherford grinned removing his finished cake from the oven.
“Mmmm, that smells good,” Tendi smiled taking a sniff. “Wait, how did it cook so fast?”
“Oh, I used my implant to interface with the oven circuitry,” Rutherford explained. “I was able to reconfigure the heating element and improve its efficiency by having the cake bake evenly at the molecular level which made it finish in a fraction of the stated time. Ha, take that Laws of Thermodynamics!”
“YOU STUPID DOUGH! LEGGO OF MY HAND!” Mariner shouted as she vainly attempted to roll out tortillas. “NO, DON’T STICK TO THE FINISHED ONES! AAAGGGHHH!”
“Oh no, not again!” Boimler ducked as stray dough, flour and cooking utensils flew through the air. “You’re not supposed stack uncooked tortillas on top of each other.”
“I CAN SEE THAT!” Mariner screamed wailing away with her rolling pin. “DIE, DOUGH, DIE!”
“And I’ll add some frosting here and here and here and…” Rutherford’s hands flew over his cake in a blur. “There, ta-da!”
“Oooo!” Tendi marveled at the intricately formed cake shaped and decorated like the Cerritos. “It’s beautiful!”
“Very nice,” Bingston Jr. approved studying Rutherford’s creation. “Almost as good as some of my early masterpieces.”
“Ugh, I knew I should have worn a hair net,” Boimler moaned picking pieces of dough out of his hair. “I’ll going to a need a long, high-frequency sonic shower after this. At least I’ll be able to soothe myself with some semi-homemade gnocchi…”
“Outta the way, nerd!” Mariner shoved Boimler away from his station. “Woman on a mission coming through!”
“Hey, this is my cooking station!” Boimler protested. “Use your own!”
“Can’t. It’s covered in dough. The heating elements are all clogged up,” Mariner snapped. “I’m gonna finish making these stupid tortillas even if it kills me!”
“From the look of them, they just might,” Boimler blinked at the tray of misshapen tortillas. “Whew, what’s that smell?”
“Romulan whiskey,” Mariner showed him an empty bottle with a strange twitch in her eye. “I poured it over the tortillas to help lubricate and unstick ‘em. Along with downing a few shots to lubricate myself…”
“I should have known,” Boimler groaned.
“Don’t worry, Boims. I still have plenty left over for this,” Mariner quickly poured two more bottles of Romulan whiskey into a pot while cackling maniacally. “A quick dip in this will cook these evil tortillas once and for all! Give a little kick to ‘em too! Hahahahaha!”
“What?!” Boimler yelped. “You don’t cook tortillas by boiling them! You’re supposed to fry them!”
“That’s just what they want you to think!” Mariner ranted tossing the empty whiskey bottles over her shoulder before whipping out a phaser. “Now stand back! It’s flambé time!”
“NO!” Boimler screamed.
Meanwhile, in the corridor…
“What’s the status on today’s repair log?” Captain Freeman asked while walking down the hallway. “We can’t afford to venture into a potentially hazardous situation unprepared.”
“Nothing to worry about, Captain,” Commander Ransom replied. “Billups reported a few minor fluctuations in the ship’s fire suppression system. He took the whole thing offline in order to run a Level Two diagnostic. It should be back up within the hour. After all, it’s not that critical a system…”
FA-WHOOOOOOM!
“Aaahhhhhh!” Freeman yelped as the entire ship suddenly rocked from an explosion.
“Gaaahhhhhh!” Ransom wailed as a giant fireball blew off the doors of a nearby room before crushing him between them and a bulkhead. “Ohhh, my spleen…”
“What the heck?!” Freeman stared into the now doorless room. Everyone and everything inside was sprawled on the floor covered in burnt food and scorch marks. “What the devil happened in here?”
“Oooh, hello,” Bingston Jr. warbled with his uniform smoking in several places. “And I thought my one-man show was a blast…”
“Wow, guess cooking lessons are more hazardous than I thought,” Tendi blinked, dazed. “Oh look, birdies…”
“Ohhh, not again,” Boimler whimpered fingering his burned scalp. “My hair…my beautiful, beautiful hair…”
“My cake!” Rutherford wailed covered in frosting. “NOOOOOOOOO!”
“I told you guys we should have stuck to using replicators,” Mariner moaned.
“That’s it!” Freeman groaned. “No more cooking lessons on my ship!”
--------------------------------------
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek: Lower Decks.
