“I’m not going to lie, Aryanna, I didn’t have you down as a chef,” Varen offered a smile as he lifted another box from the pile of ingredients that rested on a nearby pallet, diligently organised by Commander Heinz. It all seemed pretty reasonable and standard fair as he lifted the small grey tubs onto the long wooden countertop and laid out the products.

Aryanna looked over at Varen as she picked up two lemons out of a small tub filled with similar-looking fruit. “Oh, it’s not me. I’d burn water if you let me near a stove,” as she tapped her forehead with one of the lemons. “Something about wooing the ladies,” as she gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.

”Aryanna, be careful with the produce! You’ll bruise it.” As Rigras launched into his usual, practically every time they step into the kitchen, lecture on the proper handling of produce and herbs and how the improper handling of the aforementioned ingredients could have an effect on the taste of the dish being prepared. Aryanna rolled her eyes.

“I have settled more than one diplomatic crisis over a good dinner.” He patted his slightly rotund belly with the end of one long, thick leek.

“And secured my fair share of romantic rendezvous,” he added under his breath.

Varen muttered mindlessly as he lifted a large bag of potatoes from the tray and set them aside to reveal a long, ornate bottle. Across its thin glass surface, unfamiliar text wound from the base to the neck, forming small circles of text in asymmetrical clusters. He smiled as his eyes lost focus and the pattern came into clarity, a trill bottle for a trill apperatif.

“Care for a tipple, captain?” he tilted the bottle towards two earthenware cups from the nearby shelf suggestively.

Aryanna looked at the bottle “Sure, you gotta sample the goods before you use them.” As she picked up the two cups.

“I hope the guys… “She stopped abruptly as she saw one of the farm hands wheel in a small wood cask with the brand of Ma’ah’s farm and distillery burned into the side. “Excuse me? What is that?”

The farm hand pulled out a PADD and quickly flipped through some screens. “One cask of Ma’ah blood wine, year 2309. It wasn’t easy for us to procure a captain.”

Aryanna pulled out her PADD and quickly pulled up the order that she placed “ No, no, no. I specifically ordered three bottles of Chateau Picard, one red and one white from the 2380 pressing, and one additional bottle of red to be used for cooking.”

The farm hand looked at his PADD again. “Ma’am, that’s not what we received,” as he handed her his PADD, pointing out the line in his copy of the order.

“Great, just great. Well, take it back. We don’t want it.”

“Sorry, ma’am, can’t do that against our policies,” as he rolled the cask off of the dolly and started to exit the kitchen area.

“Varen?”

“You actually ordered Chateau Picard?” Varen tilted his head quizzically with a whisper. “By choice?”

The farm hand was already two steps out the doorway, slinging his small leather bag over his chest as Varen knocked dramatically on the side of the dark wooden cask.

“You said 2309?” Varen called after him as the captain ran his fingers across the stubby cask’s top idly. “An excellent vintage, guess it’ll be a really good ragu.”

“Well, that could work. Though I think Rigras was thinking of a nice red wine reduction for the lamb plate,” as Aryanna tipped the cask back and forth. “Though it feels like there is a bit in there, maybe we could do both?”

The farm hand froze, his tan skin turning pale at the suggestion of such a fine wine disappearing into a thick tomato haze. He eyed the pair warily, a disapproving glint flaring in his dark irises.

“Seems like a bit of a waste, though.” Varen offered Rigras a slight wink from the corner of his eye before offering a performative sigh. “If only we knew some people who would really appreciate such a fine blood wine.”

Varen gently pushed the stout cask back across the table, the liquid contents sloshing audibly.

All eyes met as the farm hand traded glances across the kitchen. First to Varen, then to Rigras and finally to the tempting cask like some three-way tennis volley.

“The trick with blood wine is small sips, not a lot, and let the Klingons finish the barrel,” a voice said, approaching the kitchen from outside, stepping past the farm hand who had been roped into the staring contest. Commodore Tikva Theodoras had found a bridge between casual and some semblance of her uniform by opting for a very pale blue sundress, a wide-brimmed hat that wouldn’t be amiss at her family holiday home, and then her away jacket over the top, though only thrown over her shoulders. “Though that much bloodwine will kill us all.”

Tikva waited just a moment for eyes to settle on her, then smiled, holding up two bottles as an offering. “No insult, but the closest Bajor has to olive oil isn’t quite right,” she said, waving one bottle, then the next. “And this, well, beware Greeks bearing gifts.” The second bottle was clear, its contents equally so. Her special reserve brought for the party.

“I’ll take the risk when the Greek is an old friend,” Varen replied with a smile, dismissing the farm hand with a lazy wave of his hand.

Wiping his fingers on the worn rag that hung from his belt loop, he crossed the kitchen and gladly received the pair of bottles, holding the oil up to the window where the sun trickled in. The tan liquid rolled in barely perceptible waves against the sturdy glass.

“Excellent clarity Tikva, though I’d expect nothing less from such a discerning eye. I’ll confess, however, I’d half hoped you might bring some of that famous Thessalonian feta with you.” He tapped the thick leather-bound book on the table with the base of a bottle. “I’ve been researching recipes for weeks.”

Setting the bottles on the side with a dull clink, he fixed his eyes with hers as they peeked out from beneath the sun hat.

“I do have one extremely important question, though.”

“Hmm?”

“Would you prefer souvlaki or keftedes?”

“Keftedes, easily,” Tikva answered with a genuine smile. “And please, easy on the feta. I am a disappointment to my grandparents because I don’t like it as much as everyone insists.”

“Hmmmm,I think Rigras has a Dolmades recipe that he was raving about as we were planning this with Varen. Just wasn’t sure we would find the right type of grape leaves on Bajor, so I kind of dismissed it as an option.”

“Excuse me, hot plate. Coming through,” Meadow announced as she walked through the door carrying a large wooden platter, piled with various vegetables that had a slight char on them.

Setting it down on the central work table. “Has anyone seen Altizer? The Harris Transport ship landed three hours ago.” As Meadow wiped her hands on the apron she wore, and started to separate the vegetables.

Varen nimbly lifted the transparent bottle from the countertop, saving the precious aperitif from the flurry of activity that had swept into the kitchen at the heels of Meadow. As she began plucking a large knife from the block and muttering instructions to Aryanna, Varen took the cue with a smile.

“Perhaps, Commodore, a refreshment on the balcony?” Varen tilted his head and met the rapidly nodding eyes of Tikva. “I’ve been dying to know what it’s like to fly a starbase…”

As the pair made a quick exit from the increasingly busy room, the gentle clinking of glasses in their hands a dancing counterpoint to the growing ostinato of metal striking against wood, it was clear the Prophet’s Rest was beginning to rise from its slumber. Dinner was going to be stupendous.