True confession, I am a Lord of the Rings fan. I even have a placard in my kitchen with a quote from Pippin, when he was concerned that no one understood the frequency by which a Hobbit needs to eat: BREAKFAST, SECOND BREAKFAST, ELEVENSES, LUNCHEON, AFTERNOON TEA, DINNER, and SUPPER.
Sometimes I wonder if I might be a little bit Hobbit because of my love of gardening and all things food. I am certainly not one of the Elves, Men, Kings, Queens, Dwarves, Ents, Orcs, Trolls, or any of the other spirits that inhabit Middle Earth. The Hobbits dwell closely to the land and speak often of what they want to eat. They are the unassuming heroes in this epic tale of bravery and fierce determination to keep their vows, no matter what happens. I love their child-like nature, and undying loyalty, (and their big feet!).
*****One of my favorite quotes is still just as relevent today: “I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”*****
When I was in New Zealand several years ago, a cab driver told me he was an extra in the LOTR movie and he pointed out where the Buckleberry Ferry scene was filmed. On the train rides across North and South Island, I also saw the magnificent mountains and sweeping landscape where many of the scenes in the movie were filmed. This was an unexpected bonus of the trip.
A few years back, I was doing some research about Tolkien for my own interest, when I came across this poem. It seems even Tolkien was moved to write poetry in response to The Lord of the Rings. I also felt the urge to write something as a tribute. I limited myself to 500 words for each line of the poem and the stories are not interconnected nor are they literal. I also gave myself a month to complete. I wrote about things that are familiar to my life.
“All That is Gold Does Not Glitter” is a poem written by J. R. R. Tolkien for his fantasy novel The Lord of the Rings. It alludes to an integral part of the plot. The poem reads:
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
I will share each of my five-hundred-word responses for every line of the poem in future posts.
(This is dedicated to Kerry Vincent, who is the baking judge wearing a headband, mentioned in this tribute. She died January 2021.)
All that is gold does not glitter, J.R.R. Tolkien
“Claire, don’t forget to smile.”
“Yes, Grandmother,” I answer nervously.
Cupcake balanced on a small plate with a dab of frosting holding it on like glue, I almost wish it would come undone and fall to the floor before reaching the judging table. Yet, I step carefully, as if my future depends on it. I can’t help but notice the lineup of previously presented cupcakes with colorful piping, sprinkles, and fondant embellishments, hinting at the artistic efforts of their creators. Glancing at my entry, I am half angry with my grandmother for setting me up to surely fail.
Grandmother Jewel has been a caterer for many years, until arthritis slowly stiffened her hands. Although she is careful to say little about my mother not following in her footsteps, (choosing, instead, to get her Masters’ degree in occupational therapy), Grandmother was downsizing out of necessity, then I turned fourteen and a spark suddenly came back into her eye.
“Do you like to cook?”
“I enjoy watching you cook,” I reply, trying not to throw my busy mother under the bus.
On the heels of that conversation, Grandmother came for me on a ten-mile drive every Saturday from her tidy cottage at the edge of town to the downtown loft I share with my mother, and my father when he is home from global business. I never understood our detour to a farm out of the city limits for eggs, butter and cream when we drove past grocery stores. Several years went by with this ritual then I got my license at seventeen. Grandmother gladly turned over the driving to me, with the admonition and a coin purse that I stop at the farm on the way for morning gathered eggs, new cream, and freshly churned butter. Looking around, I wondered how the old woman and her equally old husband keep their leaning barn from falling. They kindly asked about my baking, which gave me the idea of taking samples to them, much to their delight.
Saturday quickly became my favorite day of the week. My grandmother was pleased.
“You are a natural baker, Claire. Would you like to enter the next local bake-off?”
Arriving at the judging table, I gingerly place my butter cream frosted morsel of cake in front of three judges. They appear dumbfounded by its plainness. An apology rises in my throat as the middle judge (wearing her signature headband) leans in for a whiff.
“What is that smell?”
I am terrified something is afoul, when she suddenly picks up a knife and deftly cuts into my cupcake before I respond.
“I can tell from the proper crumb you have beaten your batter by hand, likely with a wooden spoon, and the golden hue surely comes from the freshest of ingredients.”
Seizing forks, three judges go in for a taste.
Now I smile.
“Madam Judge, the smell you are referring to is precisely three quarters teaspoon pure vanilla, two drops of almond extract, and one drop of orange.”
