The Love of Small Things by janeways

Chapter 2

Inspired by watching contestants on The Great British Baking Show fail miserably at making challah (or, as they called it, "plaited bread"). Written for Feanorian Fun Bingo on Tumblr, for the prompt, "Baking Bread."

(Also, try to covince me the elves didn't have some variant of matzah or other unleavened bread for the Great March to the sea. That stuff's designed for quick travel!)

A short chapter before I head up to the cabin for a few weeks - please enjoy this little tidbit! I'm trying to practice more with small, domestic scenes.

To: Lord Erestor, Chief Loremaster, Royal Archives

From: The Office of the High King

Subject: Plaited bread?

My good sir:

I have a small favor to ask of you—it is not urgent, but it would merely serve to satisfy a craving of the gastronomic nature. As a child in the care of Círdan I remember often eating a sort of plaited bread, the name of which I have long forgotten. It was eggy, and it always had a lovely crisp on the outside. I think it was a recipe originally from Alqualondë. It was related, somehow, to a sort of unrisen bread the Teleri developed on the way to the Great Sea, which we still ate in remembrance of that great journey. It has been many centuries since I last was served any, but I desire to popularize it again, here in Lindon (at least at my table!). Would you be so kind as to find a recipe and send it to the kitchens? I know it will be a difficult job, but there is no one I trust more than you for such a task. I have half a mind (born, I think, of nostalgia) to have a go at it myself, but I know what you will say—my robes!

(sealed)

Gil-galad Ereinion

Erestor gaped at the memo. Try to find a recipe. For plaited Telerin bread with no apparent signifier. In a massive library spanning several buildings, most of which was dedicated to the history of the Noldor in Beleriand. As Erestor rose from his desk to locate some unlucky apprentices to accompany him to the Sindarin-language archives across the street, he muttered to himself, “What’s wrong with Noldorin bread?”

*

As it happened, Erestor could only find Maglor that particular afternoon. Perhaps the apprentices had all had a premonition and taken the day off. He had been wandering the section on songs of Doriath with a dreamy look in his eyes. Having been quickly enlisted into Erestor’s service, the two set to work and, after an afternoon of poring over Telerin cookbooks—why did they have so many Telerin cookbooks? Why did the Teleri have so many cookbooks at all? Why did Maglor insist on reading aloud every recipe he deemed interesting?—they found something that looked promising.

Well, promising was a relative term. Six strands, and several rounds of proofing and resting, meant that this bread was something of an all-day affair—all for a deceptively simple bread of what was essentially flour, water, eggs, yeast, with a little salt, sugar, and honey.

“The head cook will have my head if I deliver this to her and tell her the King wants it on his table by the next night!” Erestor exclaimed, his face contorted into a look of utter despair.

“So let him bake it himself,” Maglor responded with his typical nonchalance. “That’s how it always was with my family. If you want something, you had to give it a go yourself.”

“But—”

“They make aprons, Erestor.”

“…I will strongly recommend an artist’s smock. And supervision.”

Maglor shook his head, his laugh like a song. “Supervision by whom? Shall I call in Círdan himself?” He got a look in his eyes, suddenly, an epiphany cresting over his features. “I’ve got an even better idea!”

Erestor steeled himself.

“He and Elrond and I shall bake it together! For the household, as a treat. You should join us, Erestor!” Putting on his best “charming prince” face, Maglor smiled. “It’s just bread, Erestor. What could go wrong?”

‘Famous last words in the House of Finwë,’ thought Erestor. Blinking, and settling into his obliging tone, the one signaling that once more, logic and reason had been defeated in the face of Fëanorian charm, he replied, “What indeed, my lord?”