[piosenniel]

‘If Falco Bobbin is coming, I’m bound to make my chicken and dumplings and Gammer Chubb’s apple crisp.’ Cook thumbed through her recipe book and jotted down a few ingredients she would need for the expected visitor. Ruby and Buttercup looked at one another as she did so, waiting for the opportune moment to ask a question.

Cook put down her pen, and Ruby nudged Buttercup in the side, nodding at Cook. Buttercup stepped forward, clearing her throat, and spoke. ‘Does this mean we will be expecting Falco this evening for supper, Miz Vinca?’

Vinca chewed on the end of her pen and nodded her head. She paused then looked up at Buttercup. ‘Is there some particular reason you need to know that?’ Ruby blushed and stuttered out a few words about needing to get the Triple-X brandy up for the crisp, and Buttercup started to giggle. ‘I see,’ said Cook, dotting the last ‘i’ on her list.

She smiled, sweeping the two now silent Hobbits with her gaze. ‘His father, you know, was considered the best looking lad in the Westfarthing.’ A dreamy look softened the features of her face. ‘And his Grandfather, now there was a looker! Not a lad could hold a candle to him in all four of the Farthings.’ Cook drummed her fingers on the table in a familiar rhythm. ‘Best dancer in the Westfarthing . . . I can tell you that.’ She bent over her list and added a few more items, as Ruby and Buttercup looked askance at one another.

Ruby opened her mouth to ask one more question, but was cut off by Cook’s admonition. ‘Best we get started on things, girls. Those Bobbin boys never did like their meals late, or their lasses to forward.’ She nodded at each of them, her brows raised in confirmation.

‘Yes. Ma’am,’ came the twin reply as they hurried off to gather what was needed, their heads bent together, whispering, with the occasional long look at Cook who seemed cast in a new and more interesting light to them.

___________________________________________

Cook mixed up two large pans of apple crisp, adding a large tot of brandy to each. She popped them in the oven to bake while she plucked the four old hens and one rooster that Derufin had delivered to her. She had wheedled him into sticking about and helping her. And soon he found himself elbow deep in feathers and innards.

‘What do you think Eodwine would want in the northwest corner of the Shire, Cook?’ he asked her, his attention focused for the most part on abstracting the stubborn pinfeathers. ‘Never been there myself,’ he said, hanging his latest plucked hen up by the feet from the line in the yard to bleed out completely.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t,’ returned Cook, taking the cleaver to disjoint her chicken. ‘Lake Nenuial is up there – in the hills of Evendim.’ She looked at him expectantly.

He nodded his head slowly. ‘The old tales, isn’t it?’ He picked up another hen, and set to work on it. ‘Annuminas! Now I recall it. The city of the Kings of Arnor. Elendil’s city.’ ‘You know,’ he said thoughtfully, his fingers slowed to a halt against the feathers of the hen’s back, ‘there has long been a rumor, since Elessar took the throne, that he would restore that ancient city of Men.’ He shrugged and picked up the pace of his plucking. ‘I wonder if it’s true? And if so, did Eodwine know about these plans?’

Derufin turned these thoughts over in his mind, itching to know what was in the man’s satchel. What sort of light would the contents throw on the disappearance of the man from Rohan. Cook’s voice broke in on his thoughts, scattering his wonderings with the downy feathers floating on the late afternoon breeze.

‘Let’s get these into the pot and stewing with the herbs and onions.’ She poked him in the ribs with her finger tip. ‘And you can make up the dough for the dumplings, my good sir. You did well enough with the biscuits the night you pitched in – might as well learn the trick of these.’ She winked at him, and herded him into the kitchen. ‘Makes you more attractive as a husband if you can cook as well as stand about and look pretty.’ She cackled at his discomfiture, and taking the hens from his hands, threw him an apron followed by the key to the pantry.

‘Flour’s on the bottom shelf, left,’ she reminded him, wondering if his ears would burst into flame, should they turn any redder . . .

[ July 17, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]