Spring Challenge Fic: "Comfort"
Here, at last, is my Spring Challenge Fic! I hope this method of posting it is all right. :D
So exciting to see all these fics popping up like spring flowers!
Enjoy this one,
Febobe :)
Title: Comfort
Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (Febobe)
Characters: Rosie Cotton Gamgee, Frodo Baggins
Rating: PG-13 for angst. No profanity, slash, sex, violence, or graphic medical anything within.
Author's Notes: Recipe provided at end of story. While I ran across multiple recipes for this dish, I have provided my favourite. However, I disclaim any responsibility as to therapeutic benefit from this item: I provide the information merely for culinary enjoyment and not for medical treatment purposes. For medical treatment, please consult a qualified health care professional. Other disclaimers: I don't own the characters; I just played with them for this fic.
Comfort
And yet, as time has melted my sorrow to merely an ache, I've come to realize that the dishes I prepared. . .did all that they were meant to do. In another time, when people were more mindful of their mortality, invalid food was simply meant to bring a small drop of consolation - both to the family and the dying.
-Pat Willard, A Soothing Broth
It has been a long time since Mr. Frodo's been well, and I don't reckon as he'll be getting better any time soon. Oh, he isn't *sick* in the usual sense, where he'll stay in bed and want coddling, though I think it might be a sight easier if he did. No, he's up every day, in his study before I have first breakfast ready even, and not liable to come out for so much as a single meal, so we've taken to taking him trays so maybe he'll stop his work long enough to eat a bite o'something.
He hardly ever does.
That's why I say it might be easier if he were in bed. He'd not have all his attention on that book, and that with someone's attention gone into getting him to eat would likely be enough to get him fed, at least some of the time.
This year has been especially bad; it's winter now, and he's never really gotten over being ill in October - not that he made on to Sam that it was much of anything, but I knew better. You can't hide bad sickness, and he was near to dying then, and even now he's not doing well, not that he lets it show more than he can help. I think it's because of the baby; he's convinced I'm fragile as one o'them fancy porcelain dolls just because I'm carrying a babe, and if that isn't the silliest thing I've ever seen I'll be daft. He and Sam both are the smartest gentlehobbits around, and absolutely the daftest when it comes to ladyfolk and babies. You'd think I was going to drop dead from the slightest exertion to hear them carry on. If you ask me, it's Mr. Frodo who's likely to drop over.
It breaks my heart in two, it does, seeing him like this. He used to have such a merry smile, and he is so dear to Sam. If I'd known when they first came back what all they'd went through together I'd never a'had such hard words for Sam as I did. It's a wonder he still wanted to marry me! But I suppose what's meant to be is meant to be, the way he and Mr. Frodo were meant to be together through all that, and I'm glad the three of us are together now.
Still, there's the matter of getting him to eat.
My Sam's fixed him everything he can think of: fried ham sliced thin the way he likes it, fluffy scrambled eggs, hot buttered toast with jam, mushroom soup, chicken broth, beef-tea, gingerbread, coddled eggs with toast points, ginger tea, warm milk with honey, muffins, mashed potatoes, porridge, vegetable soup, creamed mushrooms on toast. . .nigh on all Mr. Frodo's favourites. But not more than a spoonful or two have we been able to get down him. And I know it isn't Sam's cooking, for he's always liked Sam's cooking as well as anyone's - better, Sam says, in that big city they lived in for a while after all the bad things were ended, while Mr. Frodo was getting stronger.
I don't think that's what's the matter.
There are some things the two of them just can't understand, and I can't explain, but there's been no chance of doing anything about it before now, what with Sam hovering all the time, and Mr. Frodo not willing to let me do for him with the babe coming and all, and refusing every bite of food we put in front of him, or near enough to it. But Sam's out this afternoon, for just a little bit, gone to see how the trees in Bywater are doing, and Mr. Frodo's that lost in his book he won't hover, so I'm free to putter in the kitchen for a bit. Sam's left fresh milk, thankfully, so what needs doing can get done. Cutting a good thick slice of my best bread, I put it on to toast, then get out the butter and salt and heat some milk. Soon as the bread's toasted, I set it aside, butter it and put it in a little bowl, add just a touch of salt to the milk, and pour it over. It's on a little tray I carry it, so's not to burn my hands, because the bowl is hot from the warm milk, when I go to knock at the study door.
"Mr. Frodo?"
"Yes, Rosie?"
"May I come in?"
Hesitation. "Is something the matter?"
"Not rightly speaking sir, but. . ."
"Rosie, if it's food. . ."
"Please, sir."
A sigh. "Come in, then."
I enter, carrying the little tray carefully. Mr. Frodo is sitting at his desk, looking pale as a ghost and thin as a rail. As I come to his side to show him what I've brought, though, I can't help catching a glimpse of what he's writing.
The Last Will and Testament of Frodo Baggins, Esquire.
At once he shakes his head, blue eyes darkening. "You are to speak of this to no one, Rosie."
I can't help it. My breath catches in my throat. "Oh, but sir! Come springtime, you'll feel better. . . ." It is a lie, and we both know it, and he shakes his head bravely.
"I won't. It is too late."
"I. . ." Swallowing tensely, I find my own voice sounding foreign in my ears. "I won't tell, Mr. Frodo. Not nobody."
"Thank you." He relaxes a little, seeming suddenly to notice the tray. "What is this?"
"Milk-toast, sir. I thought as it might set well on your stomach. . .being good for invalids and all."
Tears suddenly fill his eyes, and he begins to cry. I hardly know what to do, save to throw a napkin over the dish for warmth, set the tray down, and put my arms around him and let him sob.
And at last he takes a deep, shuddery breath.
"I do think I could eat that, Rosie. . .thank you. And I think I might take a nap afterwards."
My mam used to say invalid-cookery weren't about making a person well.
I think now I know what she meant.
-the end-
Rosie's Milk-Toast Recipe
2 slices dry toast (Rosie halved this recipe for her flagging-appetite Frodo, but I have provided normal proportions here)
3/4 tablespoon butter
3/4 cup hot milk
1/4 teaspoon salt
Butter bread, arrange in hot dish, and pour over milk to which salt has been added. Tip: use a good sturdy bread, such as a honey white. You may also wish to cut the crusts off your bread before toasting.
Modified from Fannie M. Farmer's Food and Cookery for the Sick and Convalescent, 1st ed., 1904.
So exciting to see all these fics popping up like spring flowers!
Enjoy this one,
Febobe :)
Title: Comfort
Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (Febobe)
Characters: Rosie Cotton Gamgee, Frodo Baggins
Rating: PG-13 for angst. No profanity, slash, sex, violence, or graphic medical anything within.
Author's Notes: Recipe provided at end of story. While I ran across multiple recipes for this dish, I have provided my favourite. However, I disclaim any responsibility as to therapeutic benefit from this item: I provide the information merely for culinary enjoyment and not for medical treatment purposes. For medical treatment, please consult a qualified health care professional. Other disclaimers: I don't own the characters; I just played with them for this fic.
Comfort
And yet, as time has melted my sorrow to merely an ache, I've come to realize that the dishes I prepared. . .did all that they were meant to do. In another time, when people were more mindful of their mortality, invalid food was simply meant to bring a small drop of consolation - both to the family and the dying.
-Pat Willard, A Soothing Broth
It has been a long time since Mr. Frodo's been well, and I don't reckon as he'll be getting better any time soon. Oh, he isn't *sick* in the usual sense, where he'll stay in bed and want coddling, though I think it might be a sight easier if he did. No, he's up every day, in his study before I have first breakfast ready even, and not liable to come out for so much as a single meal, so we've taken to taking him trays so maybe he'll stop his work long enough to eat a bite o'something.
He hardly ever does.
That's why I say it might be easier if he were in bed. He'd not have all his attention on that book, and that with someone's attention gone into getting him to eat would likely be enough to get him fed, at least some of the time.
This year has been especially bad; it's winter now, and he's never really gotten over being ill in October - not that he made on to Sam that it was much of anything, but I knew better. You can't hide bad sickness, and he was near to dying then, and even now he's not doing well, not that he lets it show more than he can help. I think it's because of the baby; he's convinced I'm fragile as one o'them fancy porcelain dolls just because I'm carrying a babe, and if that isn't the silliest thing I've ever seen I'll be daft. He and Sam both are the smartest gentlehobbits around, and absolutely the daftest when it comes to ladyfolk and babies. You'd think I was going to drop dead from the slightest exertion to hear them carry on. If you ask me, it's Mr. Frodo who's likely to drop over.
It breaks my heart in two, it does, seeing him like this. He used to have such a merry smile, and he is so dear to Sam. If I'd known when they first came back what all they'd went through together I'd never a'had such hard words for Sam as I did. It's a wonder he still wanted to marry me! But I suppose what's meant to be is meant to be, the way he and Mr. Frodo were meant to be together through all that, and I'm glad the three of us are together now.
Still, there's the matter of getting him to eat.
My Sam's fixed him everything he can think of: fried ham sliced thin the way he likes it, fluffy scrambled eggs, hot buttered toast with jam, mushroom soup, chicken broth, beef-tea, gingerbread, coddled eggs with toast points, ginger tea, warm milk with honey, muffins, mashed potatoes, porridge, vegetable soup, creamed mushrooms on toast. . .nigh on all Mr. Frodo's favourites. But not more than a spoonful or two have we been able to get down him. And I know it isn't Sam's cooking, for he's always liked Sam's cooking as well as anyone's - better, Sam says, in that big city they lived in for a while after all the bad things were ended, while Mr. Frodo was getting stronger.
I don't think that's what's the matter.
There are some things the two of them just can't understand, and I can't explain, but there's been no chance of doing anything about it before now, what with Sam hovering all the time, and Mr. Frodo not willing to let me do for him with the babe coming and all, and refusing every bite of food we put in front of him, or near enough to it. But Sam's out this afternoon, for just a little bit, gone to see how the trees in Bywater are doing, and Mr. Frodo's that lost in his book he won't hover, so I'm free to putter in the kitchen for a bit. Sam's left fresh milk, thankfully, so what needs doing can get done. Cutting a good thick slice of my best bread, I put it on to toast, then get out the butter and salt and heat some milk. Soon as the bread's toasted, I set it aside, butter it and put it in a little bowl, add just a touch of salt to the milk, and pour it over. It's on a little tray I carry it, so's not to burn my hands, because the bowl is hot from the warm milk, when I go to knock at the study door.
"Mr. Frodo?"
"Yes, Rosie?"
"May I come in?"
Hesitation. "Is something the matter?"
"Not rightly speaking sir, but. . ."
"Rosie, if it's food. . ."
"Please, sir."
A sigh. "Come in, then."
I enter, carrying the little tray carefully. Mr. Frodo is sitting at his desk, looking pale as a ghost and thin as a rail. As I come to his side to show him what I've brought, though, I can't help catching a glimpse of what he's writing.
The Last Will and Testament of Frodo Baggins, Esquire.
At once he shakes his head, blue eyes darkening. "You are to speak of this to no one, Rosie."
I can't help it. My breath catches in my throat. "Oh, but sir! Come springtime, you'll feel better. . . ." It is a lie, and we both know it, and he shakes his head bravely.
"I won't. It is too late."
"I. . ." Swallowing tensely, I find my own voice sounding foreign in my ears. "I won't tell, Mr. Frodo. Not nobody."
"Thank you." He relaxes a little, seeming suddenly to notice the tray. "What is this?"
"Milk-toast, sir. I thought as it might set well on your stomach. . .being good for invalids and all."
Tears suddenly fill his eyes, and he begins to cry. I hardly know what to do, save to throw a napkin over the dish for warmth, set the tray down, and put my arms around him and let him sob.
And at last he takes a deep, shuddery breath.
"I do think I could eat that, Rosie. . .thank you. And I think I might take a nap afterwards."
My mam used to say invalid-cookery weren't about making a person well.
I think now I know what she meant.
-the end-
Rosie's Milk-Toast Recipe
2 slices dry toast (Rosie halved this recipe for her flagging-appetite Frodo, but I have provided normal proportions here)
3/4 tablespoon butter
3/4 cup hot milk
1/4 teaspoon salt
Butter bread, arrange in hot dish, and pour over milk to which salt has been added. Tip: use a good sturdy bread, such as a honey white. You may also wish to cut the crusts off your bread before toasting.
Modified from Fannie M. Farmer's Food and Cookery for the Sick and Convalescent, 1st ed., 1904.