I never made a secret of the fact that I was different than other hobbits, and that I had no family. Of course, I had no story, but I never contradicted assumptions. Tûk suspected there was more to my story than he imagined-- but he never questioned me. He accepted me as I was, and so his family did also. It helped that I knew much of hobbit life from observation, and so had an idea of how to behave. But
in one thing I was ignorant, yet did not even know it until I tried.

I could not cook.

I thought I could. I had, after all, been observing generations of hobbits. How hard could it be to imitate the way they prepared their food? But my confidence was shaken when I turned out ash cakes as hard as rocks and stew that was little more than lumps of meat and vegetables floating in a tasteless watery broth. I tried adding salt. That just made it worse. I could not face my new family with this failure of a meal. Tuk and his parents had been looking forward to trying my food. In my despair, I tried something I did only once, but never again. I cheated. I called upon my power to improve the appearance and smell and texture of the food.

With a sense of triumph I served it forth. It was edible, it was not bad. But it was not hobbit food. It lacked something, I could not say what-- just that it did not delight the senses in the way every meal I had among hobbits always had. No one said an unkind word, and I even had compliments on how light the ash cakes were. But I knew. I fled the room in tears.