Chapter Five: Another Mystery Is Solved

In the end I managed to persuade Farmer Broadfoot not to kill the dog, or Maggot either. Had to buy the animal from him to do it, though. I did try to give Bane to the Gamgees, as Sam had taken such a fancy to him, but Hamfast said they could "nary afford a beast with such expensive taste in vittles." And so I found myself the owner of a genuine mushroom hound.

"Bane just doesn’t suit you," I told him as he sat gazing up at me with his head on one side and his tongue lolling out. But he refused to answer to any of the friendlier names I tried out on him, and so Bane he has remained.

In any event he has proven to be a fine companion on my postal route. I have no more problems with other dogs—Bane’s enormous size disguises the fact that he is actually quite peaceable in nature. Ma spoils him rotten, of course…no doubt as payback for all the grandchildren I persist in not providing her.

From that day on, Miss Dora started being just that little bit nicer to her nephew. Perhaps it was because he’d led the S.-B.s to make such fools of themselves, or that he’d tried to protect his cousin Merry. Dora was always a great one for family loyalty. Whatever the reason, she began calling Frodo a credit to the Bagginses. I do believe she’s eased up on the family-tree lessons, too.

For the remainder of his stay at Bag End, Merry continued to look as if he was hatching some new mischief or other. He probably was. I reckon he’s keen to earn his very own "Terror" title.

I have a friend for life in Sam, who happily greets Bane each morning when we stop at Bag End on our rounds. Even the Gaffer pauses from his chores now, leaning on his hoe to talk mushroom lore with me.

Once he got over the indignity of being laughed at by the Gaffer and rapped on the head by Lobelia, Shirriff Tom grew quite proud of his role in solving the mystery, holding forth many a night at The Green Dragon. "…and that’s when Abie said I believe that Tom is not so far off the mark as you might suppose," he’d fondly recall to his rapt audience. "After that everything was cleared up in no time. Isn’t that right, Abie?"

I’d nod, smile, and raise my tankard in salute, while Otho would snort loudly into his beer from his corner by the fire. Tom became something of a hero among the other shirriffs, who began approaching him with new problems to solve. I reckon it’s better not to know what answers he gives them.

No more was heard of the Terror of Hobbiton. If Frodo missed the stories of his daring crimes, he did not let on, and became known once more only as the polite young gentlehobbit of Bag End. And yet…

One morning not long after the mushroom affair, I came upon Frodo unawares, reading. He was sprawled in the shade of an apple tree far from Bag End, back braced against a crumbling stone wall. Intent on his book, his face was aglow with the excitement of the tale.

Frodo looked up as I approached and quickly put the book aside. Watching the fire fade from his eyes, I felt that for once I didn’t want to be shut out of his private world.

"So what’s it about, then, that book of yours?" I asked.

Frodo gave me a sharp sideways glance, as if he wasn’t sure whether I was in jest. I fancy he didn’t often hear this question. "You really want to know?"

"I really do."

"Well…it’s about a hero of Men, Túrin Turambar, who lived in an age of great deeds and sorrows, and about his battle to the death with a golden dragon…"

As he talked, his bright eagerness gradually returned. I found myself thinking, once again, that there was more to this lad than met the eye—a spirit, perhaps, that would not long be content with youthful pranks, farmers’ tales, and storybooks. Frodo has other lessons to attend to, Bilbo had said, and I reckon family-trees don’t stand a chance against the lure of true Adventure. Frodo well may prove Bilbo’s heir in more than name.

* * *

The next time I had elevenses with Bilbo, he tried to press a gold coin upon me as an expression of gratitude for my efforts.

"I couldn’t accept that, Mr. Bilbo…it’s against the Shire Post code!" I protested, pushing it back into his hand. After several attempts he reluctantly subsided, and I believed that to be the end of the matter.

But one evening, Postmaster Bunce called me over when I came in from my rounds. "Well Abie, turnabout is fair play," he drawled.

"What do you mean?" I asked patiently, knowing there was no use in rushing him.

He held up a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. "This one’s addressed to you, for a change. Mr. Bilbo dropped it off not an hour ago."

"Strange," I mused, gazing down at the familiar, spindly characters. "His birthday’s not for a month yet. What could he be giving me?" I set the package aside, much to Barney’s disappointment. It would keep until I got home—I had the morrow's deliveries to sort.

That evening, with Ma hovering behind me, I set the parcel on the kitchen table and removed the wrappings to reveal a small wooden box. My anticipation mounting, I lifted the lid.

"What?" I stared, mystified, at a small, shriveled brown nut, perhaps half the size of a walnut. Was this Bilbo’s idea of a joke? I was so used to his ways, I sometimes forgot that most folks thought him quite eccentric.

"Gracious me!" exclaimed Ma, peering over my shoulder. "Now there’s something I haven’t seen in many a year…not since I was a small lass, at the Free Fair with my folks! Nor thought to again, neither."

"But…what is it, Ma?"

"It’s called a nutmeg, Abie! Brought over mountain and river from faraway lands, a rare and precious spice guarded by the Wereworms of the Last Desert!" I raised my eyebrows at her. "Or so the merchant claimed, anyhow," she amended.

"A spice?" I picked it up and sniffed it warily. It had almost no scent at all…perhaps a faint musty odor, but that might have been from the box. "Doesn’t seem any too special to me," I said, wondering if Bilbo had picked it up somewhere on his travels.

Ma looked smug. "Ah, but you have to know how to treat it, don’t you?" She bustled away, rummaged in a cupboard for a few minutes, and emerged triumphant waving a small metal device I had never noticed before. It looked like a tiny cheese grater with a hinged door at one end. "At that Free Fair those many years ago, the merchant sold my mum a nutmeg, and this here gadget to go with it. Said the one was no earthly use without the other."

Fascinated, I watched Ma grasp the nutmeg and scrape it firmly over the sharp teeth of the grater. After a few moments, she set it down, then carefully unlatched the little door and poured out a fine, pale powder into a bowl. She held it out to me. "Smell."

I brought it to my nose, and this time was stunned by the powerful fragrance. It was rich, aromatic, and unlike anything I had ever smelled before. Anything except…

I fell into a chair and started laughing. Bane tried to stick his muzzle in the bowl but Ma snatched it away just in time. "Oh, no you don’t! This stuff is more precious than gold! What’s so funny, Abie? And what do you think—can you imagine cooking with it? It’s a bit of an odd flavor, as I recollect, but it grows on you."

Oh, I could imagine all right. For the instant I smelled it, I knew: it was the mystery ingredient in Bilbo Baggins’ famous mushrooms-on-toast.

* * *

And now you know the whole story. Ma said that I ought to write it all down while it was fresh in my mind, as it would make a fine tale to read to my grandchildren. I pointed out that she was putting the cart before the pony, and that was a mistake all right, as it just set her to moaning and wailing all over again about how no one wants to marry a Third-class messenger, how I had no ambition, and how any day now she would go to join my da, may he rest in peace, without ever having a grandchild to dandle on her knee...

Anyhow, I’ve done as she suggested in the hope that it will quiet her complaints for a while, or at least give her something else to do in pointing out my writing errors. I’m not too sure who’ll ever read it, unless I start producing those progeny that Ma’s hankering for. And now I’m going to write down what I really want to: the recipe for mushrooms-on-toast.

For this dish, it’s best that the mushrooms not be too fresh…you want to wait until they’ve gone a bit dark and ragged around the edges. The flavor is stronger then, you know. Chop up very fine a good amount of them, stems and caps alike, along with some onion.

Ma is looking over my shoulder—I wish she wouldn’t do that, she just made me blot the page—and says I must put in amounts. Now this is a point we’ve never seen eye-to-eye on…while amounts may be proper and right in baking, I don’t see that they much matter in a dish like this. But Ma is still glaring at me. Very well then…

Chop up very finely one pound of mushrooms, along with half an onion. (Ma just cleared her throat.) All right, half a largish onion, that’s the best I can put it.

Melt a chunk of butter—that is, a tablespoon of butter, maybe two—in a large heavy pan, then throw in all the mushrooms and onions, a pinch of salt and pepper, a sprig of fresh thyme, and a grate or two of nutmeg…take care not to use too much of this last, a little goes a long way. (Ma has just gone to take the kettle off the fire, so I’m writing very quickly before she can tell me I’m being too inexact again.)

Take care that your fire is not too hot—nor too cool—as the mushrooms must now cook steadily for some time. They will begin to give up their juice, and now you must keep them simmering until all the juice has cooked away, giving them a stir every now and then. Toward the end you must take care not to scorch them. As soon as you no longer can see small pools of liquid in the pan, and the mushroom mixture has formed a kind of thick, dark mass, you must take the pan off the fire. Once it’s cooled a bit, it’s ready to enjoy. Oh, mind you don’t forget to throw away the sprig of thyme.

I’ve found that there are many things you can do with this dish besides put it on toast. It makes a wonderful base for mushroom soup or sauce, and a fine grilled sandwich with cheese and sliced tomato. I’m sure you can think of lots of other uses of your own.

Just writing this out has made me so hungry for mushrooms-on-toast that I’m going to have to stop now and make some straightaway. I see that Ma has left the nutmeg and grater lying suggestively on the kitchen table. Bane is sitting next to me, thumping the floor with his tail and looking up hopefully. I do believe that dog can read my mind.

Finished this twenty-ninth day of Winterfilth, 1392
by Abelard Archer
Third-class Shire Post Messenger
Hobbiton-by-the-Water

Editor’s notes:

Mushrooms-on-toast—Those familiar with French cooking will recognize this dish for what it is: duxelles. But may the ghost of John Ronald Reuhl perch on my headboard and rail all night against the Norman Conquest if I ever use a French word—let alone a French food term!—within the borders of Middle-earth. Besides, I’ll bet the Brits make it too, but won’t call it that.

In addition to button mushrooms, brown-capped crimini mushrooms (not a different species, just a variety of agaricus bisporus) are excellent for duxelles, as their flavor is more pronounced than the white variety.

If you have no fresh thyme, I don’t advise substituting dried…it has quite a different effect. Better just to leave it out. On the other hand, ground nutmeg is perfectly acceptable if you don’t have a whole nutmeg and grater. Just be careful to use a very small pinch…as Abie said, a little goes a long way!

One last note of caution: duxelles should never be fed to dogs, as onions can make them very ill. I’m sure Abie knew this, and only let Bane eat plain mushrooms.

* * *

All thanks and praise to Permilea, beta extraordinaire, for making this a better story and pushing me to be a better writer. You can find her own wonderful stories here: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/462656/

To Miss Austen, Sir Arthur, and the Professor: thanks and sorry.

© 2007 K. Barreto, aka Inkling. Plot and original characters are the property of the author. All else the property of the Tolkien Estate.