Artifondo rolled his eyes. "Father...likes to keep them...for himself..."
‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he, if the name holds true’ said Cook, looking at the thistly globe the merchant held in his hands. She shivered, remembering the stories Mistress Piosenniel had told them of Elvish history. ‘Silmaril, is it,’ Cook said, reaching for the choke. ‘A very unfortunate name, lad, for something you’re wanting to sell.’ She arched her brows at him, giving him a considering look. ‘Should I buy a crate or so, he won’t be coming to the Inn demanding them back from my customers’ bellies, will he?’
She turned it about, admiring the shape and heft of it. Separating the inner leaves a bit, she held it to her nose and inhaled. It was a rich, verdant odor. She laid the choke on the cutting board and whacked it neatly in two with her cleaver. ‘Nice heart to it. Very meaty. And look at the padding at the bases of the leaves – very plump.’
‘Let’s steam it a bit and see how it tastes.’
Last edited by piosenniel; 05-11-2005 at 02:38 AM.
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