the doctor’s foul mood. That, and the considerable amount of bourbon he’d consumed; at this point, McCoy was beginning to be a little unsteady on his feet. Still, Jim suspected he had not heard the last of the El Capitan incident.
McCoy gave a lopsided grin and crouched beside the covered pot, evidently relishing his audience’s undivided attention. “My friends, you are in for an unequaled culinary treat! Ta-daa!” And with a flourish, he whisked the top off the pot to reveal a steaming mass inside.
Spock stared at it with faint suspicion. “Bipodal seeds, Doctor?”
“Beans,
Spock,” McCoy corrected him with pride. “But these are no ordinary beans. These are from an old southern recipe handed down to me by my father, which he got from
his
father, and so on. And if you dare turn your Vulcan nose up at them, you’re not just insulting me, you’re insulting countless generations of McCoys.”
Spock weighed the potential consequences gravely. “I see. In that case, Doctor, I have little choice but to sample your. . .
beans.”
McCoy ladled his concoction into bowls and passed them out.
Jim was starving and tore into his. Happily, the beans tasted as good as they smelted. He glanced up ashe was chewing to see McCoy watching them both expectantly.
“How are they?” the doctor asked.
“They’re great, Bones,” Jim mumbled through a mouthful of beans. There was a faintly familiar flavor component that Jim couldn’t quite identify. He took another huge mouthful and tried to figure it out.
“Of course they are,” McCoy smiled, pleased. He served himself and was about to take a bite when he paused to watch Spock.
Jim looked over at the Vulcan. Spock raised a forkful to his nose, smelled it, then very gingerly tasted
one
bean.
“Well?” McCoy demanded. It was impossible to tell from Spock’s expression what his reaction was.
Spock swallowed deliberately. “Surprisingly good,” he admitted. “However, it contains a flavoring with which I am unfamiliar.”
McCoy smiled diabolically. “That’s the secret ingredient.”
Spock lifted a brow at that, but seemed to decide against pressing the issue. He began to eat with enthusiasm. McCoy continued to watch with the same self-satisfied little grin. All of a sudden, Jim fit the puzzle together: that distinctive flavor, the drunken flush on McCoy’s cheeks, the obvious amusement with which he watched Spock …
He snickered and looked over at McCoy. “Got any more of that secret ingredient, Bones?” Come to think of it, he could ease his aching muscles without having to admit to the doctor that he was sore from his recent adventures.
McCoy’s expression lit up. “You bet your buns.” He reached into a backpack near the campfire, pulled out a half-empty bottle of bourbon, and passed it over to Kirk. Jim filled his cup and handed the bottle back.
Spock stopped in mid-chew. He looked down at his plate, then over at McCoy and the bottle. Jim had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.
“Am I to understand,” the Vulcan inquired solemnly, “that your secret ingredient is . . . alcohol?”
“Bourbon, Spock,” McCoy replied, and giggled suddenly.
“Kentucky
bourbon. Care for a snort?” He proffered the bottle to Spock.
“Snort?” Spock frowned. “I was unaware that etha-nol was consumed in that manner.”
“Figure of speech, Spock. He means a drink.” Kirk could no longer keep from grinning. He looked over at McCoy and jerked his head in the Vulcan’s direction. “Bourbon and beans. A pretty explosive combination. Do you think Spock can handle it?”
“I don’t
think
I put that much booze in there,” McCoy said gleefully. “’Course, I don’t really remember. And as far as the beans go, they couldn’t possibly affect his Vulcan metabolism.”
“Do these particular legumes have some sort of physical effect—other than intoxication?” Spock asked, missing the point entirely. McCoy winked impishly at Jim.
“You don’t want
McCoy gave a lopsided grin and crouched beside the covered pot, evidently relishing his audience’s undivided attention. “My friends, you are in for an unequaled culinary treat! Ta-daa!” And with a flourish, he whisked the top off the pot to reveal a steaming mass inside.
Spock stared at it with faint suspicion. “Bipodal seeds, Doctor?”
“Beans,
Spock,” McCoy corrected him with pride. “But these are no ordinary beans. These are from an old southern recipe handed down to me by my father, which he got from
his
father, and so on. And if you dare turn your Vulcan nose up at them, you’re not just insulting me, you’re insulting countless generations of McCoys.”
Spock weighed the potential consequences gravely. “I see. In that case, Doctor, I have little choice but to sample your. . .
beans.”
McCoy ladled his concoction into bowls and passed them out.
Jim was starving and tore into his. Happily, the beans tasted as good as they smelted. He glanced up ashe was chewing to see McCoy watching them both expectantly.
“How are they?” the doctor asked.
“They’re great, Bones,” Jim mumbled through a mouthful of beans. There was a faintly familiar flavor component that Jim couldn’t quite identify. He took another huge mouthful and tried to figure it out.
“Of course they are,” McCoy smiled, pleased. He served himself and was about to take a bite when he paused to watch Spock.
Jim looked over at the Vulcan. Spock raised a forkful to his nose, smelled it, then very gingerly tasted
one
bean.
“Well?” McCoy demanded. It was impossible to tell from Spock’s expression what his reaction was.
Spock swallowed deliberately. “Surprisingly good,” he admitted. “However, it contains a flavoring with which I am unfamiliar.”
McCoy smiled diabolically. “That’s the secret ingredient.”
Spock lifted a brow at that, but seemed to decide against pressing the issue. He began to eat with enthusiasm. McCoy continued to watch with the same self-satisfied little grin. All of a sudden, Jim fit the puzzle together: that distinctive flavor, the drunken flush on McCoy’s cheeks, the obvious amusement with which he watched Spock …
He snickered and looked over at McCoy. “Got any more of that secret ingredient, Bones?” Come to think of it, he could ease his aching muscles without having to admit to the doctor that he was sore from his recent adventures.
McCoy’s expression lit up. “You bet your buns.” He reached into a backpack near the campfire, pulled out a half-empty bottle of bourbon, and passed it over to Kirk. Jim filled his cup and handed the bottle back.
Spock stopped in mid-chew. He looked down at his plate, then over at McCoy and the bottle. Jim had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.
“Am I to understand,” the Vulcan inquired solemnly, “that your secret ingredient is . . . alcohol?”
“Bourbon, Spock,” McCoy replied, and giggled suddenly.
“Kentucky
bourbon. Care for a snort?” He proffered the bottle to Spock.
“Snort?” Spock frowned. “I was unaware that etha-nol was consumed in that manner.”
“Figure of speech, Spock. He means a drink.” Kirk could no longer keep from grinning. He looked over at McCoy and jerked his head in the Vulcan’s direction. “Bourbon and beans. A pretty explosive combination. Do you think Spock can handle it?”
“I don’t
think
I put that much booze in there,” McCoy said gleefully. “’Course, I don’t really remember. And as far as the beans go, they couldn’t possibly affect his Vulcan metabolism.”
“Do these particular legumes have some sort of physical effect—other than intoxication?” Spock asked, missing the point entirely. McCoy winked impishly at Jim.
“You don’t want
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