Tastes Of Home

“You know, this is what replicators are for,” T’Pol commented, staring with mild disapproval at the ever-growing mess on the kitchen counter. “If you would allow me to simply replicate some of these ingredients—”

“Replicators can only do so much,” her husband cut her off. He dropped his whisk back into the bowl of eggs and turned to look at her. “Besides, no machine can beat the taste of a home-cooked meal.”

“It fascinates me how someone who is the self-proclaimed best engineer in Starfleet can also be so reluctant to use technology in your own life.”

Trip rolled his eyes. “C’mon. Food is supposed to be a great way of learning about other cultures, right? Shouldn’t an ambassador be more interested in expanding your knowledge of Federation worlds?”

Wiping some flour off her hands, T’Pol raised an eyebrow at him questioningly. “Are you saying this is intended as a cultural learning experience?”

“If it’ll get you to help with sifting the flour, then sure,” Trip laughed, shaking his head.

T’Pol indulged in a brief smile of her own as she went back to work. Even after her years in Starfleet, she wasn’t sure she would ever fully understand humans and their bizarre compulsions. But if making a disaster of their kitchen made her husband happy, she was willing to go along with it.

They worked contentedly for several minutes, with Trip calling out occasional instructions to her. It was while filling the crust with a sugary mixture that he let out a sigh of disappointment.

“Of course, it isn’t gonna taste quite right,” he warned her. “I didn’t think of grabbing any pumpkin spice the last time we were on Earth.”

“Pumpkin spice?”

“Yeah,” he said, that familiar wistful grin taking over. “Back home, everything had pumpkin spice in it at this time of year. My ma used to put it in all of her pies and cookies. There was nothing like it. You always knew autumn was here when the house smelled like that.”

“If you describe it, I could most likely replicate something suitable.”

Trip waved a spoon in frustration. “Nope. No way. No replicated ingredients in this meal.”

Knowing how futile it would be to argue the point, T’Pol wiped off her hands and walked over to the spice rack. “Can you describe the taste?”

“I guess it kinda tasted like cinnamon and ginger. It was warm and spicy… and home.”

It wasn’t a particularly useful description, but she still made her selection from the rack. Picking up a glass jar of long brown leaves, she passed it over to her husband. “Here. Grind these up and mix in some nutmeg. It should provide a decent substitute.”

Trip looked down at the jar hesitantly. “What is it?”

“A Vulcan spice that used to be very popular in the southern continents. I found several plants of it in my mother’s herb garden when we first moved in here.” Noticing his reticence, she added, “I thought cooking was supposed to be a cultural learning experience?”

He shot her a chagrined smile as he opened the jar. “You know I hate it how easily you outmaneuver me like that.”

“No, you do not,” she stated calmly.

Stepping closer, he reached out for her hand, which she willingly surrendered to him. He placed a gentle kiss on it before letting go. “Smart aleck.”

“I blame the bad influence of prolonged human contact.”

Trip laughed and tossed her the rolling pin. “C’mon, let’s get back to work before the dough settles too much.” He pulled the brown leaves out of the jar and shook his head as he added them to the mixture. “Guess we’ll be both be getting a taste of home if this recipe turns out.”

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