DISCLAIMER: It's Paramount's galaxy. The story is mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Tom claims he can create a replicated low-fat cheesecake that tastes better than Seven's traditionally-baked high-fat confection and Seven rises to the challenge. The stakes are high, the competition fierce—and the weather is lousy. C/7 and P/T fluff, post-"Endgame" timeline. Follows "Once More to the Journey" in the Becoming Light series.
"The Good, the Bad and the Ugly," music by Ennio Morricone, 1966.
With gratitude to my mom, who makes the best cheesecake in the known universe.
Archive with permission.
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THE ULTIMATE CHEESECAKE CHALLENGE
Stardate 55295.89
Seven sat in the mess hall at Starfleet Command watching the rain lash against the windows. 0530 and the sky was slowly fading from black to gray. Again, no sunrise. Chakotay had told her that the dawn over the distant mountains on a clear day was an impressive sight, however in her 3.62 months on Earth, she'd yet to see it. She had yet to see the mountains, for that matter. Or the sun. This location had offered no clear days.
On a viewscreen on the rear wall, a Federation News Service announcer cheerfully reported San Francisco weather as worse than that on Ferenginar. Seven thought that he might be attempting to lessen the impact of his summation with humor, however his efforts were unsuccessful. One glance out the window told her everything that she needed to know: it was cold, it was windy, it was wet. There was nothing cheerful to report. She made a mental note never to visit Ferenginar.
"Good morning." Chakotay deposited his coat on top of hers at the end of the table and leaned over to kiss her. Rainwater dripped from his hair onto her face. "Beautiful day," he said cheerfully.
"'Beautiful' would not be my first choice word," Seven said, squirming. "You are dripping on me."
He smirked and brushed the raindrops from her cheek. "Can we try that again?" he asked as he sat next to her. "'Good morning, Chakotay, what a surprise! I'm so happy to see you!'"
She smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry," she said. "My mood is reflecting the weather. I am surprised to see you. And happy." She leaned over and kissed him. "I thought that you weren't coming to San Francisco until this evening."
"They moved my meeting up—0700 today. I didn't get word until late, or I would've come last night." He pointed to her half-eaten breakfast. "What's that?" he asked.
"A bagel," Seven responded, absently studying the weather conditions outside the window again; they had not changed. "I'm surprised you don't know it—it's apparently a staple of New York cuisine."
"How is it?" he asked.
"It is… dense," she replied.
"Miral loves them," Tom Paris said, setting his tray down across the table from Seven.
Both Chakotay and Seven looked at him skeptically. "Isn't three months a little early to be eating something like this?" Chakotay asked. He picked up the bagel and dropped it to the plate. It landed with a thud.
"Oh, she doesn't eat them," Tom said. "She just gnaws on them. Turns 'em to goo. We freeze them—they make a great teething ring." He shook his head. "Klingon kids are practically born teething. We haven't slept in weeks."
Chakotay snickered, looking at Tom's plate. "Lack of sleep gives you an appetite?"
"Who has time to eat?" Tom asked. "We have a three month-old Klingon in our quarters. Our very tiny quarters. Some of us don't live in the lap of luxury like you do."
"I live in a tent," Chakotay pointed out. "In the jungle." It was the truth: his quarters were at an archaeological dig site in Chichén Itzá.
"And I live in a factory," Seven said. This was true as well: former manufacturing space was the only accommodation she could locate with a power supply sufficient for her alcove.
"A very spacious factory," Tom replied. "Anyway, we're lucky to get one full meal a day the way she keeps us running—did I tell you she's crawling already? Got to make the most of it." He spread his napkin in his lap and rubbed his hands together. "Now this is a fine example of Terran cuisine, Seven. A Southern breakfast: eggs over easy, sausage, a rasher of bacon, hot biscuit with butter and gravy, home fried potatoes, and cheesy grits."
"I believe the Doctor would call that 'myocardial infarction on a plate,'" Seven said, eyeing his meal warily. "I'm surprised that Starfleet would offer such a thing in the replicator system."
"It's low-fat," Tom said. "Healthy. I programmed it myself."
"That would program the flavor out of it," Seven replied, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
"And the texture," Chakotay agreed.
Seven looked at him and smiled. She was training him well. When they'd first started dating, he was ignorant of the nuances of taste and texture, let alone what wine to pair with what course. He'd eat almost anything out of the replicator, so long as it wasn't animal flesh, carrots or pudding—indeed, he'd eaten Captain Janeway's meals with little complaint—and he thought that Chardonnay went with everything. He'd come such a long way in a short time. She beamed with pride.
Tom shook his head vehemently. "Not if the program's done properly. It's all chemistry," he said. "And physics." He grinned at her. "Science, Seven, science."
"You're going to lose that one, Tom." The three at the table looked up as B'Elanna Torres set her tray down and sat next to her husband.
"Thanks for the support," Tom said.
B'Elanna shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but I do know that as soon as you say 'science, Seven, science,' you're done for." She planted a kiss on her husband's lips, and then smiled at Seven and Chakotay. "Good morning," she said.
They returned the greeting and Seven retrieved a PADD from her briefcase. "I've gone over your revisions and added my own," she said. "I believe we could get even more from the engines." She handed the PADD to B'Elanna.
B'Elanna smiled. "Thanks," she said. "I do, too. I'll look these over later and get back to you." She scanned the PADD; later was apparently now.
"And congratulations," Seven said.
B'Elanna looked up, puzzled.
"Tom told us that Miral is crawling."
"Oh, that." B'Elanna chuckled. "I'm not sure congratulations are in order," she said. "Our quarters are trashed. It's amazing the amount of havoc a small Klingon can wreak." Her proud smile belied her words.
"I could even program a low-fat cheesecake that tastes better than yours," Tom said to Seven, at the moment interested in something other than his precocious offspring.
B'Elanna looked at him and rolled her eyes. "Lack of sleep is making you delusional," she said.
"I concur with your wife," Seven said.
Chakotay looked at Tom. "Prove it."
"Yes!" Tom said, pounding the table with enthusiasm. "That's what we need: a challenge. The Ultimate Cheesecake Challenge." He looked at B'Elanna. "I'm tired of these 'gourmets' telling me my palate's inferior." He looked at Seven defiantly. "Do you accept?"
"Tom…," B'Elanna said.
"What is the prize?" Seven asked. In fact, she needed none—validation of the superiority of properly-prepared food would be recompense enough—however she knew a wager of some sort was required.
"Tom…," B'Elanna repeated.
Tom frowned. "It has to be good," he said. "Make it worthwhile." He pondered the situation. "Two weeks from now we have the Starfleet beach house in Tahiti."
"Tom…," B'Elanna said again, the warning stronger in her voice.
"It's great—secluded, private. One of the places Starfleet Command puts up visiting dignitaries." He grinned. "One of the perks of being an admiral's kid," he said. "And it can be all yours. You win, you get our weekend."
"Tom! No!" B'Elanna whirled to face her husband. "Your father's babysitting." She turned to Seven. "Can you be on call to help out if he needs it?"
"You want me to assist Admiral Paris with your infant?" Seven asked.
"That's the idea," B'Elanna said. "You're good with her."
Seven smiled. She did have the ability to occupy Miral for an entire hour simply by clenching her enhanced hand into a fist—the baby would attempt to pry her fingers open. It was a futile endeavor, but Miral was a persistent child. It was one of her favorite games.
B'Elanna returned her attention to her husband. "It's our first night away, Tom…"
"Don't worry," he said. "I've got this." He turned back to Seven. "So what do you have to put on the line?"
Seven considered the situation. "All right," she said at last. "We have reservations for spring skiing in Kashmir. The most challenging downhill courses on Earth and exotic South Asian cuisine at day's end."
"Seven…," Chakotay said.
"The cuisine prominently features animal flesh," Seven said to Tom. "You will enjoy it."
"Seven," Chakotay repeated. "I was really looking forward to that trip…"
"Do not worry," she said to him. "I've got this." She looked at Tom defiantly. "Do we have a wager, Lieutenant?"
Tom pounded the table with his fist again. "You got it, Lieutenant."
They stood and shook hands.
Chakotay and B'Elanna looked at each other with resignation, and then out the window at the drenching rain.
#
Irene Hansen pursed her lips and furrowed her brow in thought as Seven explained the Cheesecake Challenge to her. "I am confident in my technique," Seven said, bringing up the list of the ingredients on the monitor in her kitchen. "However ingredient quality is an unpredictable variable—the impact of which I'd like to reduce."
"And you want me to tell you where to get all of this?" Irene asked.
"Precisely," Seven said.
Her aunt was an exo-agronomist specializing in melittology at Cornell, the top agricultural research facility on Earth. She'd served as a consultant on several agrarian planets. Her field of expertise also provided—as Seven had learned very quickly upon meeting her—access to the highest quality foodstuffs in the Federation.
Apparently an interest in comestibles ran in the family.
"I will require the first delivery by 0600 tomorrow, so that I can begin perfecting the recipe," Seven explained. "The second delivery must be here no later than 0700 on Saturday morning, the day before the contest. The ingredients must be fresh."
While Irene perused the monitor, Seven poured a mug of coffee for each of them, and then examined the parcels her aunt had brought. She held up a large mesh bag containing dozens of mollusks and raised her eyebrow. "What am I supposed to do with these?" she asked. "Chakotay and I are vegetarians."
"Oh, those are for me," Irene said. "Leave them in the bag and set them outside. The weather's certainly not going to hurt them."
Seven set the mollusks outside the door to her rooftop garden. The rain was still lashing down.
"That's an awful lot of cream, Annika," Irene said, still examining the list.
Seven started cleaning the leeks for soup. "I am making my own cream cheese tomorrow," she said. "It's the best way to control for quality."
"Jerseys are your best bet," Irene mused. "They produce the best cream." She searched her database. "There… Gordineer's Dairy in the Schoharie Valley, upstate New York. Lovely family." She smiled brightly. "They treat their cows very well."
Did contented bovines produce better milk? Seven wasn't certain, but her aunt appeared to believe so and Seven would accede to her expertise.
"Use delivery coordinates alpha for the transport," Seven instructed.
Five two-liter containers of fresh heavy cream and an equal quantity of whole milk materialized next to the refrigerator just as Chakotay and Icheb walked into the room. Their hair was wet with rain and their faces ruddy from the cold and wind.
"Look who I ran into," Chakotay said, clapping Icheb on the back. He stepped around the containers to give Seven a kiss. "What's all this?"
"Your nose is cold," Seven said. "The ingredients for the cheesecake. Irene is assisting me with procurement." She examined the interior of the refrigerator, frowning. "However, storage space appears to be at a premium."
"It's two degrees outside," Irene pointed out, scrolling through a list of poultry farms. "Set the containers next to the oysters; they'll be fine." She frowned at the screen again. "Annika, do you want chicken or duck eggs?"
Seven directed Chakotay and Icheb to assist her with the dairy products. "Duck," she replied. "They are higher in albumen and fat and will produce a superior cheesecake."
"Duck it is," Irene said.
Six kilograms of freshly-milled flour materialized next to the refrigerator. Seven noted Icheb's quizzical expression. "For the graham crackers," she advised him. "For the crust. I will bake them and pulverize them."
"Can you leave some intact?" Icheb asked. "So we can eat them?"
"They'd be really good with some of that cream cheese," Chakotay agreed.
Seven rolled her eyes at them. "This is serious. My culinary pride is at stake." She smirked, remembering Chakotay hovering over her shoulder in the kitchen, picking bits of this and that from bowls and pans as she cooked. He called it "stealing a taste" and it was most often paired with "stealing a kiss." "Don't worry," she said. "I've taken your penchant for sampling incompletely prepared food into consideration. There will be enough for graham crackers with cream cheese."
Chakotay and Icheb smiled and slapped their right hands together in a triumphant gesture. Three dozen duck eggs materialized next to the flour.
Seven looked at her team. She had an agricultural expert and two enthusiastic tasters on her side. She would win this. She gestured to the delivery. "Please assist me," she said.
#
Tom hunched over the counter in his kitchen—his very small kitchen—while Harry Kim leaned against the refrigerator, nursing a beer. Tom reviewed the formula on his PADD one last time before uploading it to the replicator. "That should do it," he said confidently. "Computer, replicate program Paris Cheesecake Gamma-twelve."
"How many cheesecake programs do you have?" Harry asked, looking over his shoulder at the living room where a sustained din punctuated by irrhythmic pounding provided the soundtrack.
Tom followed Harry's gaze. He'd grown so used to the noise that he didn't really notice it until someone else did. That someone was usually their neighbors. "Miral's rehearsing," he said, smirking. "We're raising a drummer." He chuckled at Harry's wince before turning back to the replicator.
A slice of cheesecake shimmered into existence and Tom held up the plate triumphantly. "Number forty-seven looks like a success."
"Forty-eight," B'Elanna said, surprising him from behind. "It looks good. Better than the last few tries. But how does it taste?"
Tom handed forks to his wife and his best friend. "You be the judge," he said, holding the plate out to them.
B'Elanna and Harry each took a forkful and looked at each other skeptically. Wusses, Tom thought. Harry was the first to bite. B'Elanna followed. Tom watched their faces intently.
"Too sweet," Harry said, grimacing. "Did you remember the lemon? I remember Seven using lemon for something."
"Harry's right," B'Elanna said, wrinkling her nose. "Too sweet. And too light. It's fluffy. Cheesecake isn't supposed to be fluffy. This is more like mousse."
"Oh, what do you know? Cheesecake isn't exactly a staple of Klingon cuisine." Tom took a forkful for himself and let it roll around his tongue before swallowing. His face fell. They were right—too sweet and too fluffy. He set the plate on the counter and picked up the PADD again, frowning. "Okay," he said. "Lemon. And if I tweak the molecular structure of…"
The cacophony from the living room increased, followed by pounding on the wall from the quarters next door. He looked at his wife. "She's bothering the Murrays again."
"QI'yaH!" B'Elanna muttered, then walked to the far wall—it only took four determined strides and she was not a tall woman— and pounded a reply.
"Is this some kind of communication system?" Harry asked.
B'Elanna returned to the kitchen with Miral in her arms. "Here," she said to Harry, handing the baby off to him. "Bond with your niece." She looked over her shoulder and glared at the wall. "You'd think people in family housing would be more understanding." The volume of her voice rose with each word.
Miral found Harry's left ear and pulled on it. "Ow!" Harry exclaimed, attempting to unclench her fingers.
"Be careful," Tom said. "She's pretty strong. She broke my nose last week. I had to go to emergency."
"Seriously?" Harry asked, eyeing Miral warily as she went after his lower lip.
B'Elanna nodded and grinned. "That's my girl," she said proudly.
Tom looked at his team. He sighed. He loved them both, but they really were a motley crew for this mission. He hunched back over the counter and started entering revisions to the formula into the PADD. He'd aced organic chemistry at the Academy. Number forty-nine would be golden.
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