The Most Important Ingredient is Love by daughterofshadows  

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First Age

With thanks to Margot for beta-reading!

We start in the first age, because it's always good to start in the beginning.
Adanel and Belemir have figured out how to blend their traditions together, decades later their great-grandson does the same.

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They stand side by side, stooped over their table as they chop root vegetables. On the hearth, a pot of water simmers, waiting for the vegetables that will turn it into a stew. It is simple fare, but nourishing—and most of all warm.

Outside, the wind howls. Snow has finally given way to rain, pounding on the roof. Spring is coming soon, but for now, winter has them in its grasp for a little longer.

Belemir is showing Andreth how to chop the turnips into small chunks, his large hands guiding her smaller ones, and their niece is watching with a frown of concentration.

Adanel watches them with a smile. It is a blessing to be tucked away safely inside their home, and to be able to share the joy of cooking with the ones she holds dear.

 

When Adanel and Belemir first wed, and she came to live amongst his people, it was the cooking of food where they first found common ground.

The dishes of her childhood were a piece of home Adanel could take with her on her move to her new household, and as her life and Belemir’s became intertwined, the meals they came to share reflect their union, blending traditions of both their families into something new entirely.

Now they share their recipes with Andreth who will add her own ideas to the pot as she grows older and share them with the ones she loves.

 

Adanel is shaken from her reverie when Andreth proudly presents her with lopsided chunks of turnip.

“Look! I cut these all by myself!” Andreth proclaims. “Can we add them to the stew?”

“What magnificent pieces of turnip! I will gladly add them to the stew and it will taste all the better, because you had a hand in making it.” Adanel smiles and carefully drops the turnips in with the rest of the vegetables simmering over the fire.

“And now we wait,” Belemir says, “for the most important ingredient of all is time.”

“And love! You said love was also very important!” Andreth adds, climbing into a chair beside him.

Belemir grins. “Indeed! How could I forget all the love we have added to the dish. It would taste much poorer without it. Now, while we wait, maybe we can convince your aunt to tell us a story?”

“Oh, please, Adanel, will you?”

With two sets of pleading eyes turned on her, how can she say anything but yes?

“Very well, my loves, if a story is what you wish for, a story you shall have. It was very long ago by the reckoning of our people, though not so very long ago at all by the reckoning of the elves…”

 

Belemir spins as she speaks, the spindle turning and turning as he turns fibre into yarn. Adanel, too, knows how to spin, but she despises it and so it is well that Belemir delights in or they would have to trade with their kinsfolk for all of their yarn.

But enjoy it he does, and so Adanel will happily do all of their mending while Belemir spins the thread.

 

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Life is good, Beren thinks as he returns home. They have settled into a quiet existence, here on the edge of the forest, where Dior can sing with the birds and run with the deer.

He has found fresh root vegetables on his walk, enough that they can have stew for dinner. Autumn has settled in, and the air is growing colder each day; stew will be just the thing to warm them up tonight.

It is also a new recipe to share with Lúthien, for his beloved wife did not know how to cook.

She is skilled at baking but cooking she had yet to learn. Beren does not know whether it is because she is—was a princess, or whether there is some cultural reason for it, but he enjoys the opportunity to teach her now.

His thoughts drift back to the day when he first learnt how to make this dish, guided by his mother’s strong hands.

 

His parents had shared the cooking duties and both Barahir and Emeldir took care to teach Beren the art of preparing meals.

Both brought recipes into the family, dishes they grew up with, dishes they learnt to love as they grew older.

Beren does his best to remember them all so he can share them with his own son one day. He does not have much in terms of a legacy he can give Dior to remember his paternal family by, but he can give his son this.

Recipes that have been passed down through generations, with each new family member adding their own twist to the dish.

The stew Beren intends to make tonight is one his mother brought into the family. Emeldir learnt it from her father, who learnt it from his parents in turn.

 

Beren puts down his foraged treasures on the kitchen table and gets to work. His family drifts into the kitchen while he works.

“What are you making tonight?” Lúthien asks, head tilted curiously. She reminds him of the cat his neighbours kept around as a mouser. Sometimes it would sit and watch people as they worked the fields, head tilted to the side as if trying to unravel a great mystery. If it had ever discovered the secrets of the world during those times, it chose not to share them with anyone.

Thankfully, the mystery in front of Lúthien is not much of a mystery at all.

“I thought we might enjoy some stew for dinner. The forest gave us fresh vegetables today and it reminded me of a dish my mother made often. It has been many years since I last tasted hers, but I believe I can still manage a passable imitation. I could use some help with the preparations, if you have the time?”

“We have all the time in the world now, my love. Certainly enough to help you with dinner, though you will have to teach me what to do with these.” She smiles at him, still excited to learn new things. That she has lived many millennia longer than Beren ever will is no matter.

A small hand tugs on his tunic and Beren looks down at his son.

“I want to help, too!” Dior pleads, looking up at him with big eyes.

Beren grins. “You are a bit too small to handle the big knives right now, but I would greatly appreciate your help stirring the pot while the stew cooks later. It is a very important task.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes! For you see, that is when the most important ingredient of all is added to the meal. Do you know what it is?”

Dior shakes his head.

Beren kneels on the floor so he can whisper into Dior’s ear. “The most important ingredient, little songbird, is love. When we share this dish as a family, we also share the love we have for each other. Never forget that; no matter what you cook or whom you cook for.”