Work Text:
There is not much Sam can do.
Every day is a little different. Some nights, Frodo is beset by nightmares from dusk to dawn, which makes for a day of feeling like his limbs are weighed down by boulders.
Some nights, there are stretches of peaceful sleep, but then Frodo’s heart beats like a frightened bird come morning.
What makes it better or worse? That’s anybody’s guess.
Sometimes, it’s being too cold or too hot, too much exertion, or too much remembering.
But sometimes, things just are. Sometimes, you do everything right, and Frodo still startles at every sound. Sometimes, the memories come unbidden, and there is nothing to do but hold fast and weather the storm.
That’s when Sam makes The Stew.
The Stew that generations of Gamgees have made, and that, per family lore, has all but magical powers.
The Stew has seen generations of little Gamgees through sniffles, fevers, and sore throats. The Stew has cured the broken hearts of teens and tweens, and the rheumatic pains of elders. The Stew has brought the family together for inter-generational councils, and welcomed many a traveler from the next Farthing.
Come what may, the Stew is the same.
Take two long, green, fanlike leeks, and dice them fine. Then do the same to an onion and two carrots. Place them at the bottom of a pot with enough oil to coat them, and simmer until the smell tickles your nostrils.
Then, add the taters sliced into rounds. Add the cloves, along with pepper and salt and nutmeg. With a wooden spoon, give the taters a stir, coating them with oil and spices. Add plenty of water until everything is covered and stir again.
The Stew will simmer for half an hour, and while it simmers, you clean the kitchen, wash dishes, and think of various things. The kitchen will grow warm with steam, and you must lift the lid and stir the pot from time to time. Press your spoon into the taters to free the starch, and by the end, the Stew should be creamy as milk.
Frodo is no Gamgee, but he loves the Stew.
Sitting curled up in a ball in his armchair, he stirs at the smell no matter how tired he is.
He insists on holding it himself, and Sam plans for this. The Stew is never too hot when he serves it, and comfortable enough to hold between two palms.
Often, Frodo does not even use a spoon. He sips the thick, creamy broth with his eyes closed, his face serene as a pool on a windless day. There is no tension in his brow, and the wrinkles by his eyes grow smooth.
Sam clasps his shoulder then, and runs his hand down his arm.
“Thank you, Sam.” Frodo opens his eyes and gifts his beloved a cerulean look, dark-rimmed yet loving.
Sam puts his hand on Frodo’s and tells him to “eat up, Mr. Frodo, eat up.”
After all, the Stew may not have magic, but taters do a body good, no matter the ailment.