May the 1st, 1470

Sam sank down on the kitchen bench, heartily tired. He had spent the whole afternoon removing some stubborn roots in the back garden, and now his spine felt under his skin like a rotten broomstick.

I’m getting too old for this, he thought, too bad that Frodo-lad is in Michel Delving today… and that I couldn’t keep my hands away even though I know better.

His gaze wandered over the neatly laid table, grazing hazelnut rolls, freshly baked, dark bread and an apple pie with cinnamon crumbs. Rosie had perfected her cooking skills during fifty years of marriage to a dimension that made newlywed women pilgrimage to Bag End and listen to her advice with honest awe.

She came in, closing the door behind her and cutting off a noisy tohuwabohu of voices in the hallway; Sam could briefly sound out the shrill soprano of Ruby, the warm baritone of Robin and the penetrating tenor of young Tolman. He grinned inwardly, remembering a remark Merry Brandybuck had made last week when he came for a visit: Should there ever be an attack of ruffians again, there would be no need for my silver horn - as long as your youngest is around.

He smiled at his wife.

“What’s the uproar about, lass?”

“Oh, nothing important.” Rosie gave a snorting laughter. “Ruby accused Robin of using her newest festive blouse to make a bed for Tabby’s four kittens. Robin swore he had nothing to do with it, and then Tom sneaked by like embodied bad conscience, the blue silk ribbon from the sleeves of Ruby’s blouse dangling from the pocket of his trousers.”

Suddenly she leaned in and he felt her lips on his mouth, firm and sweet.

“And do you know what the best thing is? Within the next hour the trouble will be forgotten, they will be gone to the May feast on the Cotton farm, all of them, and we will finally be alone to have our own party.”

Sam caught her around the waist and pulled her close. With a surprised little shriek she gave in to his movement and sat down… a heavier weight than fifty years ago on that very day, but still highly cherished and deeply appreciated. And loved.

He kissed her back.

“Fifty years ago I would have carried you to the bedroom with no eye for those delicacies. But today I’d like to eat something before… erh… dessert.”

She giggled softly.

“Fifty years ago you had pig roast aplenty, a glass of wine and an enormous piece of strawberry cake before… dessert… and a generous helping of hazelnut pudding afterwards. I guess I have a better memory when it comes to kitchen business.”

Sam grinned ruefully.

“I definitely had a better stomach, and no mistake. But…” and his face brightened, “my appetite for you has never sagged, not a single day.”

She filled his plate generously.

First things first, he thought, happily digging his fork into the apple pie.