Author notes:
Merry Christmas everybody!

Many hugs and kisses to Slightly Tookish for stopping me from deleting this and for betaing.

The Yule Bakery

Foreyule 1373

"Will Auntie Gilda come? And what about Uncle Rory?" The young lad slid down the work space onto a chair, hopped to the floor and ran to his mother as she folded a towel and hurried to the oven. It was the first time she had allowed him to help preparing the biscuits for the Yule-festivities and he didn't want to miss a single moment of it. He had followed his mother's steps for more than an hour now, dashing from one corner of the kitchen to the other, climbing onto the work space and jumping down again only to keep an eye on everything she was doing.

Doing the Yule baking had proved to be far more interesting than he had expected. The smell alone was worth the effort of remaining at his mother's side even though she made no attempt to slow down her movements so he could keep up with her. The kitchen smelled of wood, dried apples, cinnamon, roasted nuts and almonds, and honey and wherever his eyes went he discovered another treat his mother had created. To his utter delight she didn't even scowl him when he allowed himself to sample the ingredients of their biscuits before they were finished.

"I'm afraid they won't, Frodo-dear," Primula replied, taking the first tray of golden biscuits out of the oven and placing them on the kitchen table to cool. Content to see the first fruits of her work she wiped her hands with her apron and went back to kneading the dough with skilled fingers.

Primula Baggins had always loved doing the Yule baking and she enjoyed it even more with her little boy beside her. It was the first time she had allowed him to stay at her side since he had been so eager to be of help. To her delight, her son proved to be quite talented when it came to forming little sickle-moons out of dough. They were not at all as well-shaped as hers, but that did not matter as long as he was happy.

Unfortunately, showing interest in baking and even some talent - which was quite useful for every hobbit - did not mean he wouldn't make a mess. Clapping his hands enthusiastically after plunging them into a mound of flour had become somewhat of a game for him in the course of the morning. Primula shook her head at that, but since it made her son giggle, and she would have to mop the kitchen anyhow after she was done, it was not much of a problem for her.

"And what about cousins Sara and Esmie and Merimac? Will they come?" Frodo continued as his eyes lingered for a moment on the tray of steaming biscuits. A delicious smell rose from the little sickle-moons, filled the room and mingled with the odours already lingering in the air. Frodo licked his lips hungrily, shuffled to the table and pulled himself onto his tiptoes so he could see them from over the brink. They not only smelled delicious, but they looked tasty as well.

"No, lad, they will all celebrate in Buckland," Primula answered rolling out the dough so she could cut little stars out of it. After putting them onto another tray she would daub them with stirred eggs and put a nut or almond on top. Others she would put in the oven without any covering because later she would put sugar icing on them. Realising that her son had gone uncommonly quiet Primula turned around.

"Frodo!" His mother's cry made him pull back his hand with a start. "Don't, child, they are still hot. You will burn yourself."

Frodo pouted, sneaking another glance at the biscuits before walking to his mother's side again, this time doing without climbing onto the work space. "Why don't we celebrate in Buckland?"

"We are living in Bywater now, my boy, and Buckland is a long way to travel," Primula explained patiently. It had been quite a change for Frodo when they had moved to this comfortable, small hobbit-hole close to Bywater shortly after his fifth birthday and it pained her to see that he still missed his relatives dearly. In the beginning Primula hadn't been so fond of coming here either because she knew she would miss her family just as Frodo now did but finally she had agreed with her husband, Drogo, who had been very eager to move back to the Westfarthing after having lived in Buckland for almost twenty years. He was, after all, a Baggins and never got quite used to the ways of Brandybucks. Primula smiled at the thought of her husband, hoping she would adjust more easily to life in Bywater. So far she thought she had not done a bad job.

Suddenly she grew aware that Frodo was tugging at her skirt. She looked down and there he stood, her boy, her little star, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration, nose and cheeks white with flour and eyes wide with wonder and curiosity. She smiled down at him and placed her hand on his hair, encouraging him to ask his next question. He was a little chatterbox, her Frodo, and never tired of asking questions and she, doing as best as she could, tried to answer every single one of them, though, at times it was a tiresome business.

The creaking of the front door was heard and whatever question Frodo had been about to ask was forgotten. With a delighted cry he dashed into the hall, nearly stumbling over his own feet in the process.

Even before he could close the door Drogo was almost knocked over by his son's effusive greeting as the lad sprang into his arms, and it was by pure luck that the bag he had brought from the market did not fall to the ground.

"You're cold," Frodo observed putting his warm, floury hands around his father's neck and placing a smacker on the corner of his lips in greeting. Drogo smiled and kissed his son's cheek in return, pressing his cold, red nose into the soft skin. Frodo squealed and pushed his father's face away from his, scolding and giggling.

"And you are lusciously warm, my dear," Drogo laughed, putting his son on the ground again. "Besides, you smell of honey."

Frodo grinned, wiped his cheeks with his sleeves and ran back into the kitchen, almost bumping into his mother. Drogo shook his head and chuckled. Frodo was as lively as his wife was rumoured to have been as a child.

Shivering a little Drogo shrugged out of his cloak and coat. He rubbed his hands together in order to warm his fingers when Primula suddenly kissed him from behind. "Did you get everything?"

Drogo smiled at her and nodded. She looked gorgeous in the dim light of the lamp, even with her hair bound tightly and her cheeks and apron covered with flour. Doubtless Frodo had some involvement in her appearance. "Everything you wanted and I even found a little something for our young rascal."

"What is it?" she asked curiously, leaning in to sneak a glance into the bag he was still carrying. At this very moment a pained cry echoed from the kitchen and both parents darted into that direction.

~*~*~

"I made them all by myself," Frodo explained proudly, then, glancing sheepishly at his mother he whispered conspiratorially, "with a little help from Mummy."

"I see," Bilbo nodded winking at Primula and taking another one of the biscuits. "And they really are your first? They taste delicious."

Frodo beamed with pride as he leaned over to try one of the icing-covered stars for himself. It was the evening before Yule and his uncle had come for a visit. Bilbo was neither Auntie Gilda, nor Uncle Rory, but he was a sufficient alternative. Frodo liked sitting on his uncle's lap as he did now and listening to his stories. Unfortunately he had not managed to trick Bilbo into telling a tale today. Frodo contently leaned against him anyhow, nibbling his cookie and watching the flicker of candles and the fireside.

Long shadows danced on the walls and the ceiling and the small bunches of mistletoes his mother had hung onto every lamp shimmered in the dim light. The smell of spruce, pipe weed, and cinnamon hung in the air. Peace and comfort filled the room and as Frodo listened to the voices of his parents he felt his lids grow heavy. Bilbo shifted to make him more comfortable but in the process managed to touch Frodo's left hand just where it hurt. In an instant Frodo was fully awake again and pulled his hand back from where it lay on his uncle's lap, scolding at Bilbo as the old hobbit apologised.

"No need to make such a fuss about it, Frodo-lad," Primula told him. "It's your own fault."

Frodo did not answer but looked at his bandaged left hand with mixed feelings. He had burned his fingers when he had tried to get one of the biscuits this morning in spite of his mother's warning. After all, they really did look delicious. His mother had brought him a bowl of cold water to place his hand in and lessen the pain and, since he had not been convinced that cold water would do to make it better, she had bandaged his hand just as he wanted her to: from wrist to little finger.

"I'm sure it will leave a scar," he announced after several moments of silence and looked sanguinely at his uncle. Seeing Bilbo's doubtful glance he leaned close to him again and whispered, so only he could hear it, "Dad calls them the marks of life, you know. He says every scar tells a story."

"Do they?" Bilbo asked quietly suppressing his laughter at Frodo's precociousness.

Frodo nodded vigorously. "Mine will speak of biscuits."

"That sounds like an excellent tale to tell at your first Yule feast in Hobbiton tomorrow," Bilbo smiled and reached for two more icing-covered stars, one of which he handed to his nephew.

Primula smiled at them and leaned against her husband's shoulder. Her heart warmed at the sight of Bilbo and her son and the peacefulness of the evening. This Yule would definitely be a success if it continued as it had begun.

~THE END~