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Testing the top of the freshly-baked cake with her hand, Widow Rosebank found it wasn’t quite cool enough to frost. It was a lovely cake, dark brown and slightly shiny on top, and smelled richly of the molasses, ginger and other spices used to flavor it. She had been surprised and touched when Miz Bunce permitted her to bake a treat for this evening. It was a great honor when a hobbit let someone cook in her (or his) kitchen. Chasing that varminty cat around the kitchen must have formed a kind of kinship between them, for the Widow had spent the entire rest of the afternoon helping the staff out. She smiled a little at the idea of telling her daughters in Bree that she’d spent part of her journey to the Shire cooking at an inn.
She thought the cake would be well-received this evening. The recipe was very popular among Bree-folk Big and Little, who described her as “near as good a cook as a hobbit.” The frosting was in a cloth-covered bowl at her elbow, waiting to be spread over the molasses cake. The Widow was surprised to notice that she was alone in the kitchen, at least for a moment. Deciding that she had earned a bit of rest, she soberly poured herself a cup of tea and sat down, careful to face the windows and the back door. If that Orc came back, she didn't want to have her back turned.
She hadn’t minded the excitement with the cat, but when that lass Ginger had popped in and told them there was a Orc on the premises, she’d nearly dropped her mixing bowl in terror. The hobbits had simply called for the Shirriffs as if Orcs were an ordinary problem, but the Widow took little comfort from this. She knew painfully well how horrible the creatures were. Just before the King had returned to his throne in Gondor, a party of Orcs, Goblins and even some wicked Men had killed several Bree-landers, including her own husband. She’d found her poor Pennyroyal butchered in his own field. Shuddering at the grisly memory, Widow Rosebank wondered how the hobbits could just go ahead with an outdoor party. Her Pen had been one of several Bree-landers attacked before the villains had been finally routed in the Battle of Bree. Besides her husband, she’d lost life-long friends and neighbors in that black time, all cruelly killed.
“Well, Ebba, brooding won’t help anything or anybody,” she whispered to herself. She got up and drained her mug, then checked the cake again. It was finally cool enough to frost. She uncovered the bowl of creamy, slightly tangy frosting, dipped in a knife and began to cover the sides and top of the molasses cake. As she methodically frosted, she wondered if she would find the nerve to step out of doors and join the party later.
Just as she finished, Buttercup the kitchen maid came bustling in. “This is finished,” said the widow, indicating the cake. “Is there a place Miz Bunce would want me to put it?”
Buttercup cheerfully assured the widow that she would take care of the cake while the widow went upstairs to clean up and get ready for the party. Widow Rosebank, although still undecided, thought she could at least wash up after her afternoon’s work. Thanking Buttercup warmly, she left the kitchen and went up to her room.
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