Docking Procedures

There were plenty of good reasons for plomeek soup to be considered a staple of Vulcan cuisine: it was, under all possible aspects, an eminently logical dish. Nutritionally adequate, easy to swallow even for small children, and bland enough in taste not to come as a shock to their little palates, unused to the variety of flavours of adult food. Perfect, one might even venture to say.

And that was why Amanda’s unrestrained fit of laughter came with a moment of shocked delay at the sight of the curious spectacle currently offered by her husband, who was as close as she’d ever seen him to showing an actual feeling—in this case, frustration.

Simply put, there was probably more soup on his once-pristine robes and hair than had actually landed into Spock’s mouth.

“I would ask that you cease this display at once. There is very little motive for laughter; in fact, I am considering notifying a healer.”

She forced herself to stop, if only to ask about that last puzzling statement.

“A healer? Why?”

“It seems illogical to refuse nutrition when he clearly needs it. Obviously, Spock is not hungry at the moment, and I cannot find any plausible cause for it other than illness. If you’ll excuse me, I must clean up before I place my call, as I no doubt offer a most undignified sight in my present condition, even over a viewscreen.” And with that, he turned to leave.

“Sarek, wait.” He stopped in his tracks and faced her. “He’s not necessarily sick. Sometimes, children just need some convincing, that’s all.”

He surveyed the half-empty bowl and the (mostly) clean room with the minute expression she had long since labelled ‘secretly impressed’, and she smiled.

“Spock’s condition seems much improved,” he commented.

“There was no condition, just a very stubborn little half-Vulcan, and a mother who turned out to be even more stubborn.”

“How did you accomplish this?”

“Want to know the big secret? Watch and learn.”

She dipped the spoon into the soup and said with exaggerated cheerfulness: “Preparing for departure.” Then, determinedly looking anywhere but at her husband’s reaction, or lack thereof, she made a sound that she knew was a far cry from that of a shuttle’s engines, but it was the thought that counted, as the old adage said. “Shuttlebay, prepare for docking. Here comes the shuttle! Open up!” A little more whooshing and the spoon mercifully made it past Spock’s lips and came out empty.

“A most… peculiar method. Why would a crude imitation of docking procedures encourage him to eat?”

“I’m not exactly sure, but it’s a tried and true human trick that has worked just fine for countless generations. Before shuttlecraft, it was planes, and before planes… I have no idea. I guess it distracts him just enough to help him not dwell on the fact that the taste and texture are still unfamiliar. Care to try?”

She offered him the spoon, but it was more in jest than anything else. She knew him too well to think he would ever go along with it.

“Perhaps another time.”