By the time the household was roused by his youngest sister’s cries of “Ada’s baking! Ada’s baking!” Faramir and Elboron had been at work for quite some time.
Two kinds of ginger: ground for the filling, candied for the glaze. He watched his father’s strong, callused hands kneading the dough, until… “Smooth as a baby’s bottom!” they sang out in unison, laughing, as always.
Then came the moment when Elboron asked his question, as he did each year, knowing now that it was part of the tradition. “What was my uncle Boromir like?” And his father began to tell him.