Sections in italics come directly from The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 3, "Three is Company.

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CHAPTER 18

Mersday, his birthday morning dawned as fair and clear as it had long ago for Bilbo’s great party. It was a beautiful day, but Frodo had no joy from it. There was only one refrain, and its variations on his mind: why, why had Gandalf not arrived? And how could Frodo set out without him?

Normally on The Birthday, Frodo would be in a frenzy of preparation. But this year was just going to be a small dinner party for himself and his four guests, and since the smial was already cleaned in preparation for the move, there was very little to do.

He did have a few gifts to wrap, and in the afternoon, he and Sam would be busy with the cooking, but otherwise he was rather at loose ends.  It  left him little to do but fret.

Where, where was Gandalf?

Merry and Pippin decided that they did not wish to take a chance of irritating Frodo on his birthday. Sam was taking a cart full of items that Frodo thought the Cotton family could use, so Merry and Pippin thought they’d go along with him, and keep out from under Frodo’s feet that morning.

Of course, they’d also be bringing something home with them as well. Fatty had given Merry a purse full of coin to pay for the cake. They would have to get back with it to Bag End before noon, or it would not be proper.*

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Fatty decided to spend the morning attempting to write out a good copy of the Elvish poetry he and Frodo had worked on earlier that summer. Folco kept him company, softly playing on his wooden flute. He was really quite good, but could only rarely be coaxed to play for anyone else but Fatty.

Lured by the sweet strains of the gentle music, Frodo came into the study and sat quietly down where Folco could not see him. For just a little while he was able to forget about Gandalf, the journey, and the Ring.

So relaxed in fact, were the three friends by the music, that they quite forgot about elevenses. They were therefore somewhat startled at a quarter of noon when Pippin stuck his head in the study door.

“Ah. There you are! Fatty, Folco, we need you. Frodo, don’t you stir from this room, I’m shutting the door, and don’t you dare look out the window either.”

So Frodo sat alone listening to the voices in the hall. (“Careful, Sam!” “Mr. Merry, hold your side up a little higher.” “Oi, watch the wall!” “Pippin, get the door, quick!”) The sounds faded off in the direction of the dining room.

After a moment, Fatty stuck his head in the study. “Frodo, could you come to the dining room please?”

Frodo came, shaking his head. What kind of surprise had they come up with? They’d left it nearly too late, for according to hobbit etiquette, any gifts to the byrding had to be delivered no later than noon the day of the party; and strictly speaking, should be delivered the day before.

“Oh, my stars!” Frodo exclaimed at the sight of the cake in the center of the dining room table. It was huge, easily enough for two dozen hobbits, let alone five or six. He walked over to admire it: seven perfectly round layers packed with fruits and nuts, each layer divided by a thick filling of raspberry preserves, and the whole topped with a circle of cream-colored marzipan. A little nosegay of fall flowers lay on top.

“Well, fellows, you seem to have outdone yourselves. Did Lily Cotton make this?”

“Yes, she did,” answered Merry.

Lily had spent most of her tweenage years in Michel Delving working for her maternal uncle, who was a baker of some renown. If she had been a lad, she would have been his apprentice. But she married Tolman Cotton and moved to the Hobbiton-Bywater area. Now her skill earned her family extra coin from time to time.

“Thank you very much, it’s a work of art.” Frodo hesitated. “I hate to mention this, lads, since you’ve gone to such effort--but, isn’t that rather an awful lot of cake?”

Merry, Fatty, Folco and Sam stared at the cake as though they had never thought of that before; but Pippin, who was notorious for his sweet tooth, grinned wolfishly. “It is, isn’t it?”

Much to Pippin’s disappointment, Frodo decided to wait to cut the cake until after the party dinner that night. They all adjourned to the kitchen, for once they had finished luncheon, it would be off-limits while Frodo and Sam cooked the farewell feast.

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It is a commonly held opinion among the other races that all hobbits are good cooks. Of course, like all such opinions it is not strictly so. A hobbit who cannot cook is rare, but a few such exist. “Good” of course is a matter of degree.

Sam was an excellent all-round cook, even by hobbit standards, able to turn even the simplest of ingredients into a feast. Frodo, on the other hand, was a competent cook, not outstanding. However, there were a very few special dishes at which he truly excelled. One of those was his stuffed mushrooms, which he was making now, as he argued with Sam.

“I really wish you would, Sam,” he said, tossing a knob of butter into the hot skillet to melt.

Sam looked over from where he was preparing three chickens for roasting. He hoped that three would be enough, with Mr. Pippin and Mr. Fatty here. “It wouldn’t be proper, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo rolled his eyes. Proper. They’d been having this argument almost ever since they came in the kitchen. He looked at the melted butter, and threw in the onions, celery, carrots and mushroom stems he had diced. The garlic could wait a minute longer. “You eat with us all the time, Sam.”

“In the kitchen.” Sam finished trussing the second bird. “Not in the dining room.” Sam was getting almost as tired of the argument as Frodo. Truth was, if it had only been Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, he might have given in. But he didn’t know Mr. Freddy and Mr. Folco as well, so he dug in his heels.

Frodo tossed the garlic into the skillet, watching carefully; there was nothing worse than scorched garlic. After a moment, he splashed in a dollop of Old Winyards. After a second’s thought he splashed some of the wine into a cup for himself. He held the bottle up. “Sam?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Frodo.” Sam was now putting the chickens on the spit, and took up the argument once more. “and don’t say you don’t know why the room makes any difference, because you do.”

Frodo gave a sigh as he took the skillet off the heat, and prepared to grate stale bread into a bowl. “Well, maybe I do, but it shouldn’t make any difference at all. And it is my party. I should have whom I like.” Frodo frowned. That last sentence had sounded childish. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose this argument.

Sam shook his head as he lifted the chickens onto the fire. If he weren’t careful, he’d give in. He hated it when Mr. Frodo used that sad, forlorn tone of voice.

“Have we any fresh rosemary, Sam, or should I look out the dried?”  Frodo had finished grating the bread, and was now grating a small chunk of hard aged cheese.

“There’s some in the blue bowl on the table, sir.”  Sam started scrubbing the potatoes and carrots.

The two worked in companionable silence for a while, both ready for a truce, but also aware that the matter wasn’t finished yet.

After a few moments, Frodo spoke again. “How about a compromise, Sam?”

“Sir?” Sam was suspicious, but hopeful. Maybe he could live with a compromise.

“You come in before the dinner, when I give out the gifts; and you join us again afterward in time to toast Uncle Bilbo and share in the cake.” Frodo looked at him pleadingly.

Sam sighed. “I guess that’s only fair, Mr. Frodo.”

“Very well, then, it’s settled.” Frodo stirred the cooked vegetables into the bread crumbs. “Now, where on Middle-earth did I stow the pan with the mushroom caps?”

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*"gifts to the byrding were to be delivered in person on the eve of the Day, or at latest, before luncheon the on the Day" ( Letters #214 )