Disclaimer: I definately don't own these characters, they belong to Professor Tolkien, but I dearly love them!

Dedicated to and written for the birthday of my very best friend, my own Mr. Frodo, with love from your Sam.

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Samwise Gamgee rose from bed as soon as the sun began to dry the dew on the grass. Normally he would allow himself a few more hours' sleep, but this was no ordinary day. He quickly splashed a little cold water on his face, pulled on a pair of breeches with his patched nightshirt and made his way to the kitchen, taking care not to wake anyone in the hole. Once there, he began gathering all the necessary ingredients. He needed no recipe card, for he had made this one many times.

            "Baking powder - one tablespoon, don't stop stirring it too soon ... one cup of flour, bake for an hour ..." He hummed snippets of the rhyme and let his mind wander the pages of memory as he measured and stirred...

            "Hullo there, Sam."

            Sam looked up at the older hobbit shyly. Frodo hadn't been there in Bag-end long and he was still slightly nervous around him. Gaffer had given him a stiff warning to treat him and serve him just as he would the Master. He'd actually looked him in the eye once, but only briefly for the shimmering pools of blue he found there sent him quite a shock. He gazed up again now, being able to hold it this time since he knew what was there. They were lit up with his smile and, looking down, Sam saw he held onto on of his leather-bound books he'd brought with him from his former residence at Brandyhall.

            " 'Afternoon, sir," he stammered in reply.

            "Oh, don't waste that 'sir' business on me. Call me Frodo - everyone else does! Still being bashful? Hmm ... how about some sweets? Would you like to learn how to make cake?"

            A grin to rival Frodo's spread quickly over the Gamgee's face as Frodo took his hand and led him in the direction of the kitchen.

            "The recipe's quite easy to remember, it's all in a rhyme ...”

            Many years had passed since that day, but the bits of prose remained in his mind as clearly as if Frodo was whispering it in his ear.

            Scrape, mix, crack, pour, swish, dash, stir ... all the sounds blended together into a sort of music and Sam began humming, tapping his foot to the rhythm. This made him think of all the grand parties they'd had in the past on this day, the music and dancing. Today would not be nearly as extravagant, but he would do his best. Anything for his Frodo.

            Soon the batter was ready and he poured it smoothly into a round cake pan and placed it in the oven which he had already lit and tended to. The flames had lessened and the coals glowed white against the darkness of the stove.

            After carefully closing the oven door, he set about the task of cleaning up the pile of dirty bowls and measuring cups. He set them in the basin on the counter. Flour had settled on his clothes like snow and he brushed it off now, walking to a hook where he took a cloak and headed out the door. Passing by the rows of beautiful flowers he planted, he went to a little water pump and filled a bucket. He shivered when the cold liquid splashed onto his feet as he heaved the heavy bucket up, trudging back to the hole.

            When he passed the flowers again, he saw something that almost made him drop the bucket. Among the mums that were there for fall boomed a small clump of forget-me-nots. Sam starred, wondering how they could still be alive with the frost they'd had lately.

            ... Weeks had passed since their little cooking lesson, and Sam was nowhere near as shy around Frodo as he once was. In fact, they had grown to become quite good friends. Ever since that day, Sam had been trying to find something to "give" to Frodo in return, and when he stepped outside one morning and saw the freshly-turned soil next to the hole, he knew just what it could be.

            He gathered what they would need and headed over to the large oak tree around the back of Bag-end, where he knew he would find Frodo, reading a book.

            "Mr. Frodo, Mr. Frodo!" he called from the base of the tree.

            A face pepped out from behind the branches. "Yes, Sam? Whatever is the matter?"

            "Oh, nothing at all. Just come down and follow me - I've something to show you."

            Frodo jumped gracefully onto the grass, walked over, put an arm around Sam's narrow shoulders and said, "Lead the way!"

            The Gamgee grinned and walked him to the bare patch in the garden. He pulled out a watering can, a trowel, and some small burlap bags of seeds. "Would you like to learn how to plant flowers, sir?"

            Just as with Sam those weeks ago, a grin spread over Frodo's face, lighting up his eyes. "Where do we start?"

            Sam gestured for Frodo to kneel on the ground beside him. "Now, see, you just dig a little hole in the soil like this ...”

            By the time he got back inside, the kitchen was starting to fill with the sweet smell of vanilla. With ease that came from years of doing such chores, he managed to pour the water into the basin without spilling. He dropped a piece of lye soap in and moved his hands around in the water to lather up the dishes. When he was satisfied, he wiped his hands off and left the dishes to sit while he went to check on the cake. When he opened the door, heat and the smell of cake rushed into the room. The cake was golden. Perfect.

            He pulled the pan out carefully using a dishrag for protection and set in on the counter to cool, tossing some sand on the coals in the stove to suffocate the few flames left. The cake was soon iced and placed on one of Rosie's best rose-patterned china plates.

            Going back to his bedroom, Sam put on his best vest, which he had carefully laid out the night before, glancing at Rosie's sleeping form before going to the kitchen and retrieving the cake. He went out the front door, closing it carefully behind him and got the cart. "C'mon, Bill. You know what to do."

            The cart pulled up by the shore and Sam climbed out and stood, the waves lapping up against his toes. He set the plate down on the sand and whispered, wishing that the soft breeze could carry his voice as far as it would need to be heard by its intended.

            "Happy Birthday, Mr. Frodo."

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