“Man, it’s a long way to Mordor,” complained Frodo. “Can I have a piggyback ride?”

“No,” snapped Sam. “No more piggyback rides.” Sam had had enough. He was drawing the line. All Frodo had done for the past week was complain and ask for piggyback rides, and frankly Sam was sick of it. Who made Frodo master, anyway? As far as Sam was concerned, all Frodo had done was accidentally inherit an evil magic ring. Sam was the one who actually knew how to do useful stuff, like garden, and cook. What a useless lug, he thought.

“Sorry Sam,” said Frodo meekly. “Could I have some lembas bread then? Feeling a bit peckish.”

Sam reached into his pack and pulled out a few crackers from their dwindling supply. “Pace yourself,” he started to say, but Frodo had already grabbed the whole bunch of crackers and stuffed them in his mouth, spraying crumbs all over his velvet vest.

Sam sighed and took out his map to check their route. “Once we reach the peak, we’ll camp for the night,” he said.

“Okay,” agreed Frodo. But they had barely gone a half mile before Frodo was hunched over, gripping his stomach.

“What’s wrong now, Mr. Frodo?”

“Those lembas crackers…ooh…not sitting so well,” gasped Frodo.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Sam reached for an unopened package and began to read: “Salt from the Elvish seas, whole, unprocessed flaxen wheat from organic Lothlorien fields, fresh, raw milk from Elven cows…”

Frodo’s stomach rumbled loudly.

“Argh,” said Sam. “Stay here.”

Stupid bugger, he thought to himself, as he backtracked down the mountain. Never follows his doctor’s orders. But he felt a bit guilty for not checking the package beforehand. Arriving at the bottom of the mountain, Sam stopped at a field of stocky green plants which bore a striking resemblance to a certain Schedule-I plant that shall remain unnamed and doesn’t even enter into this story, minus this short illustrative analogy. He sat down in the dirt and dug at the base of the plants until he had uncovered several large, brown tubers. After peeling and grating the tubers with his pocketknife, he built a small fire and soon his concoction was browning in a makeshift oven of volcanic stones. An hour later, he had packed everything up and was on his way back to Frodo.

“Here you are,” said Sam, handing Frodo a hot, steaming parcel.

Frodo sniffed the package a few times, his nostrils filling with the fragrant scents of rosemary and garlic. “What is it?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Mr. Frodo – but if they could, they’d choose that. Fit for a king, if I do say so myself. Even the elves wouldn’t turn their noses down at it. So next time you’re feeling peckish, you leave the lembas to me, and stick with that.”

Frodo took a bite of the fresh, hot bread, and a look of wonder came over his face.

“Why Sam…this is, like, the best bread ever! Guess we’d better hurry so I can have more for dinner!” He leapt to his feet with newfound energy, and the hobbits continued on their way.

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