Buttercup stood at the granite counter, a colander of just washed carrots and peas fresh from the vine in the stone sink next to her. She reached for the large oak chopping board and a big knife for chopping carrots in anticipation of cutting them into nice fat rounds for the stewed chicken Cook had in mind for supper.
Several old hens and a decrepit rooster had come to the end of their feathered tenure in the Inn’s coop, and were already cooking slowly in a savory broth redolent of rosemary, sage, and the tops of celery root. The rest of the celery stalks and the fat carrots would grace the stew, and the small, sweet peas cooked with mint and a sprinkling of sugar would be served up on the side. Buttercup inhaled deeply, her mouth watering at the enticing smell of the chicken and herbs.
Chunk! Chunk! Her knife bit through the carrots in an efficient manner, soon rendering the entire three bunches into bite sized rounds. Buttercup scooped them into a large bowl and took them over to place in the stew. She dumped them in and swirled them about in the lovely liquid, then brought a spoonful of the broth to her lips.
Cook hissed at her, saying ‘The chicken will be dry as a bone if you keep guzzling that broth, Buttercup! Chop up the celery now, and then get to the peas. We’ve got a roomful of hungry customers out there to feed tonight.’
Buttercup sighed and placed the lid back on the large stew pan. Cook returned to her mound of flour and shortening and water, plunging her fingers expertly back into it, in preparation for making a pan or two of her light and fluffy biscuits.
Her back was to the door as Derufin came striding in, grinning from ear to ear, and bending down, grabbed her about the waist and swung her about once, plunking her feet back firmly on the floor when he was done. She rounded on him her cheeks red and her eyes blazing, shaking a floury finger at him.
‘Now what is all this tomfoolery, Derufin! Scaring a poor old Hobbit with your antics!’ She wiped her hands on her apron and fixed him with a steely glare.
But he stood before her grinning, like a cat-got-into-cream, and waved the letter at her.
‘She’s bound for the Shire, Cook! For the Inn! And the wee ones with her!’
[ June 01, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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