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A giftlet for periantari.... Frodo and Sam and Rosie post-quest...
“Mmm, it smells wonderful.”
Sam and Rosie looked up in delight when they saw Frodo standing before them, color back in his cheeks, looking very much himself again. His March illness had rendered him helpless for several pain-filled days. Rosie held the newly born Elanor at her breast.
“It’s just a bit of stew,” she said. “Sam made it. I’m not quite up to cooking yet myself.”
Sam smiled and took Frodo‘s arm, leading him to sit down at the table. “I’m glad to see you up and about, sir. I’ve been worried.” He ladled soup into a bowl and set it before Frodo.
“I’m feeling much better, thank you,” Frodo said. He sniffed the aroma from the bowl. “ What sort of stew is this?”
“Coney,” Rosie said. “Sam’s specialty.”
“How are you feeling, Rose?” Frodo asked. He reached over to stroke the downy golden hair on Elanor’s forehead.
“Oh, as well as can be expected, I suppose,” Rosie said with a chuckle.
“She’s a tough one, our Rose,” Sam said. “Elanor here didn’t want to come out.”
“Well, would you want to come out if it was nice and warm and cozy where you were?” Rosie said. “I know I wouldn’t.”
Frodo ate the stew in silence for a time, and then he asked, “Sam, do you remember the coney stew you made in Ithilien, just before we met Faramir’s men?”
“Ah, yes, and it all went to waste, it did.” Sam shook his head in regret.
Frodo smiled in memory, continuing to eat the stew. His body warmed more than it had in several days since his illness had struck. Sam’s coney stew, whether made in the cozy haven of Bag End or on the boundary to Mordor, was made with the finest herb to be found -- love.
“Mmm, it smells wonderful.”
Sam and Rosie looked up in delight when they saw Frodo standing before them, color back in his cheeks, looking very much himself again. His March illness had rendered him helpless for several pain-filled days. Rosie held the newly born Elanor at her breast.
“It’s just a bit of stew,” she said. “Sam made it. I’m not quite up to cooking yet myself.”
Sam smiled and took Frodo‘s arm, leading him to sit down at the table. “I’m glad to see you up and about, sir. I’ve been worried.” He ladled soup into a bowl and set it before Frodo.
“I’m feeling much better, thank you,” Frodo said. He sniffed the aroma from the bowl. “ What sort of stew is this?”
“Coney,” Rosie said. “Sam’s specialty.”
“How are you feeling, Rose?” Frodo asked. He reached over to stroke the downy golden hair on Elanor’s forehead.
“Oh, as well as can be expected, I suppose,” Rosie said with a chuckle.
“She’s a tough one, our Rose,” Sam said. “Elanor here didn’t want to come out.”
“Well, would you want to come out if it was nice and warm and cozy where you were?” Rosie said. “I know I wouldn’t.”
Frodo ate the stew in silence for a time, and then he asked, “Sam, do you remember the coney stew you made in Ithilien, just before we met Faramir’s men?”
“Ah, yes, and it all went to waste, it did.” Sam shook his head in regret.
Frodo smiled in memory, continuing to eat the stew. His body warmed more than it had in several days since his illness had struck. Sam’s coney stew, whether made in the cozy haven of Bag End or on the boundary to Mordor, was made with the finest herb to be found -- love.