Bag End Bakery: Butter, cream, eggs
Author: tari_roo
Rating: Gen
Disclaimer: I own nothing and profit from nothing. But if I did, The Hobbit would have been two brilliant movies and Kili and Fili would not have died
Summary: Bilbo had always wanted to be a baker but time, society and breeding did not permit such frivolities. That is however, until a party of Dwarves turned his quiet evening upside down and Bilbo finds himself on the improbable path of baking albeit not for a living, but because he loves it. Oh, and it may just save all of their lives, or at least their digestive tracts. Good baking generally does.
Warnings: This is quite obviously an AU. If you are reading this, I assume that you know the books or the movies. If you don't, please feel free to read anyway. It's the coffee-shop slash bakery AU without any pairings that you were not expecting. I know I wasn't. For those on a diet (er, why do I do this to myself) read with caution. Vegetarians be warned – descriptions of delicious roasts, etc.
Author note: My first Bakery AU. Happily researched by watching copious hours of GBBO and Masterchef. This will be part one of a series of 'can be read as complete stories'.
Chapter 1
For as long as Bilbo could remember, he had wanted to be a baker. One of his fondest childhood memories was of standing on a stool in Nana Laura's kitchen, helping her bake scones. To this day whenever he smelt hot scones and fresh strawberry jam, he was drawn back to the giddy child-like joy of tasting something he had had a part in making. Soft buttery scone melting against his tongue, rich strawberry jam bursting in his mouth, Nana's laughter as he tried to eat two scones at once. His grandfather, Old Mungo, had declared those first scones as the finest he'd ever tasted. To young Bilbo, it hardly mattered that his grandfather subsequently declared all of Bilbo's efforts as the 'finest in Hobbiton', even the disastrous crab apple tart, which not even a torrent of custard could save. That first batch of roughly shaped scones had sealed his love of baked goods and baking.
The love of good food was a hallmark characteristic of all residents of Hobbiton. From the earliest days when Hobbiton was a tiny village to the present where Hobbiton was a delightful scenic neighbourhood in the broader metropolis of Rivendell, its residents treated food and the consumption thereof as one of the joys of life. Good, wholesome products from long established farms were brought in daily, to busy markets and grocers. Not content to merely purchase superior produce, most residents in Hobbiton maintained their own gardens, either on rooftops or in orderly allotments, adding to the overall 'green' feel the neighbourhood was known for. They loved their food and were not shy about that fervent obsession.
However, for a hobbit from the more gentile, or upper crust of the society within their corner of Rivendell, embarking in a career of pastry and baked goods, was frowned upon. While Bilbo's mother had not actively discouraged his obsession with baking, as afterall, an appreciation of good food was very 'hobbitish', she often cautioned his desire to pursue it as a career. His father had been far more direct and on an equally memorable day, Bungo had clearly told his young adult son that it wasn't fit for a Baggins to be a shopkeeper, let alone a baker.
"Bake all you want, Bilbo my son, bake those delightful cakes whenever you wish. But keep them for family occasions and our private consumption. You are a Baggins, and no Baggins has ever hawked their wares on the street like a common Neargirdle."
The contradiction to this statement was never quite clear to young Bilbo, and even years later, when he had Bag End all to himself after his parent's death, he still felt a smidgen of discontent when he visited the large kitchens downstairs. Baggins may not be storekeepers or bakers, but they were certainly not above entertaining the elite of Hobbiton society.
For hundreds of years the Bagginses had been amidst the cream of Hobbit society. A distant forefather had made the family fortune when he sold most of their land to Elrond the Great, the Elvar who had established Imladris. As the ancient Elvar city had slowly encroached on the village of Hobbiton, its residents had maintained their distinct identity and still referred to themselves as Hobbits, despite having long since been incorporated into the larger Elvar nation. Over the years, the Baggins ancestral home had risen above the small houses of the village, matching their rise in society, until their little empire included Bag End, a multi-storey building with several floors of living space for the broad Baggins clan, an allotment to the rear of the building that could more appropriately be called a park and several tenements within Hobbiton that brought in rental income. While most of the wealthy citizens of Rivendell used roof-tops and penthouse suites to show off their wealth, in Hobbiton your ground floor was truly your symbol of prosperity. If you dedicated your ground floor to such frivolous activities as entertainment and dinner parties, then you were truly well-to-do. From Balbo, to Mungo and finally Bungo, each successive son improved upon the ground floor of Bag End until it was a place fit to entertain royalty. A kitchen so impressive it had three ovens, including a range and a roasting spit, ample work benches and a massive cold room. Beyond the kitchen was the luxurious entertainment area, complete with bar and comfortable seating fit for any hobbit. Large windows let in warm sunlight during the day and at night offered a delightful view of the leafy streets of Hobbiton aglow with street lamps and houselights.
His parents had hosted many a party, bringing in Elvar, Dwarvish, Gondorian and Arnorian caterers to wow their friends. Local lads and lasses were always eager to earn some extra money as servers and experience the amazing food and lifestyle of the gentile Hobbit. For several, glorious years, Bag-end and the Bagginses had been the toast of Hobbiton. Whenever Bilbo thought of his parents, most often he remembered the long summer nights where their parties drew in the whole neighbourhood and spilled over into the gardens, lights hanging from the great Party tree, the sound of laughter and music in the air.
His parents had died the year Bilbo was finishing his third degree at the university. While Bilbo loved a good feast, in the long years since their death, he had not once thrown a similar party. To some, this meant Bilbo was even more gentile – as now he had space that wasn't even used. To others, like his cousin-in-law Lobelia, it meant that Bilbo was flaunting tradition and besmirching the family name. Despite her repeated requests and demands, Bilbo kept the ground floor of Bag End exactly as his parents had left it.
Fortunately for Bilbo, his talents did not lie solely in the kitchen and he had taken up the far more acceptable career for a gentile hobbit of author.
His parents had lived long enough to see his first book published and their praise and pride at his little book still resonated with Bilbo. The Gardens of Hobbiton was a thin, easy read of a page turner that was now in its fourth print. It was part travel guide, part local history as Bilbo described the treasures of Hobbiton, the old walled gardens, the newer parks and the little pockets of countryside preserved within the city. Bilbo had expected that only his fellow hobbits would buy it, but the book had brought increased foot traffic and interest from other Rivendell residents, both Elvar and non. One of his proudest moments was bumping into an elderly Elvar, who hailed from Lindon, the port several miles away, who had taken a train in for the day – just to see Hobbiton as a result of reading Bilbo's book.
In the years after his parent's death when Bag End had felt too empty, too lonely, Bilbo had explored broader Rivendell and was even more surprised that his second book, The Treeline of Rivendell was even more successful than the first. Much of the old city of Imladris had been laid waste during the Black Wars, and while the newly invigorated Rivendell emerged from the ruins, large parts of the ruined old city were left untouched, in memoriam for what had once been. Rather than become an eye-sore or stark, harsh reminder of the past, the talented Elvar architects and gardeners had transformed the ruins into a lush, winding stretch of park land where trees, grasses, water features and quiet gardens sprung up in the ruins. Officially named 'The Imladris Memorial', most folk referred to it as the Treeline, as ambitious gardeners and amateur botanists planted trees at all levels of the old buildings.
Bilbo had spent many a happy hour exploring the Treeline, lost in its green swath of beautiful architecture and greenery and his book brought a fresh wave of interest in the old parks and avenues. If Bilbo had not already had a family fortune to support himself, he made his own with the second book.
His friend Gandalf had encouraged and inspired book three Beyond Rivendell. For nearly two years, Bilbo travelled the surrounding countryside, visiting small villages and towns, gathering funny stories, interesting bits of local lore and history, trying local food and ale. He went as far as Lindon to the west and Eregion to the east, and travelled both by foot and by train. While writing his fourth book, he revisited a few of his favourite places and when Leaving Rivendell hit the shelves, it was an instant bestseller. Bilbo was the toast of the town and spent several months hopping from party to party, event to event. He was even invited to speak at his alma mater, Rivendell University and his lecture filled the auditorium. What pleased him the most though were the letters of thanks he received from the small bakeries, restaurants and hotels he'd visited and mentioned in the book. Their business was booming and it was all due to Bilbo's wonderful turn of phrase and high praise.
After nearly six months of relentless activity, of smiling and shaking hands, of listening to the same old spiel about how wonderful he was, could he see his way to writing a book about the best farmers, best restaurants, best fishmongers, best bookstores in Rivendell, Lindon, Lorien and Wood Realm, Bilbo withdrew from society. Pleading a very real exhaustion, Bilbo politely declined all invitations and declared that he needed some time to rejuvenate and contemplate his next adventure.
That was three years ago.
The steady flood of invitations had slowed to sporadic rain, normally accompanying a reprint, or re-release of one of his books. Bilbo had consented to a total of three invitations over that period. A feast at the University. A function at the palace – one did not decline an invitation from Prince Elrond. And his great uncle Largo's birthday.
Other than that, Bilbo had enjoyed a quiet, restful three years. If anyone asked him (not that many people did) how he filled his days, he could answer honestly that he took long walks in the Treeline, visited his favourite farms and country houses, went on two to three day rambles from his home into East Farthing Woods and beyond. What he never mentioned was the peaceful contentment he felt when he baked muffins for his lunch, pastries for distant friends and pies for the road. In all honesty, Bilbo himself perhaps had not realised that many of his excursions were mere excuses to bake something in preparation for the journey. What he was cognisant of was the pleasure of a cold pork and watercress pot pie while seated on an overturned pillar, high up in the Treeline. Or the relish with which he demolished a fresh fruit bun slathered with butter on the train to Lindon.
One morning, when the air was still crisp and chilly but the spring sun was warming the air and chasing the lingering cold away, Bilbo stood in the modest kitchen on second floor, happily mixing up a batch of tea biscuits. Contrary to tradition, Bilbo had added vanilla bean into the mix and the kitchen was filled with the heady scent of vanilla. With breakfast and second breakfast out of the way, Bilbo felt like a strong cup of tea with some fresh biscuits which would be ready just in time for elevenses. As he combined the ingredients, he sang softly to himself, attention cleanly split between the bowl and window. It was a glorious morning, all the more glorious due to the clear, cold air sweeping down from the mountains. The view from Bag End was mostly unobstructed, and from his vantage point he could see across the cheery streets of Hobbiton all the way to distant farmlands and hills of the countryside. Hobbiton remained an outlying borough of Rivendell, with its paved streets eventually giving way to country roads. The towering White Mountains which protected Rivendell to the North East were unseen, rising up behind Bag End from this view. On the streets below, local hobbits and residents of Hobbiton were out and about, many a conversation taking place on street corners and over yard fences. Off to the right, Hamfast Gamgee was working in the Baggins allotment, clearing away winter debris.
Judging the mix ready, Bilbo sang quietly to himself as he spooned the mixture out on the bench for rolling and cutting. "Over snow by winter sown, and through the merry flowers of June, over grass and over stone, and under mounts in the moon."
When the first batch was in the oven, Bilbo wiped and cleaned up the scattered flour and sugar, noting the placement of the hands on the time piece on his window sill. Next to the dwarf-crafted timepiece was a large bowl of bright blueberries. It was early in the year for them, and he'd been pleasantly surprised to see them in the market yesterday. They were a little tart, but the more he studied them, the more Bilbo could taste a light, airy muffin bursting with tart berries, topped with sugar or icing. Putting aside his second tray of biscuits, ready for the oven, Bilbo took out another bowl, and started sifting flour for a light, brioche style muffin.
Once the dough was in the proving drawer, Bilbo's biscuits were done. Placing the second tray inside the oven, Bilbo smelt the warm, golden biscuits on his counter and smiled. Perfect.
Leaving the tea biscuits to cool, the muffin brioche to rise, Bilbo slipped into the library, in search of a good book. As the clock in the dining room struck eleven (it was always the first to strike, no matter how many clockmakers fixed it), Bilbo was seated on his balcony, a pot of tea on a tray next to him on the smooth table, and a plate of fresh biscuits ready to be dunked placed close at hand. Settling into the soft cushions, shaped after many an hour to fit his rear perfectly, Bilbo sighed, the Tales of Drego the Snide resting on his lap, green cover closed. His timepiece was now on the tray as well, ticking away towards the time when the dough was ready. All felt right in his world. Tea, biscuits, a good book and a perfect spring day.
"Perfect."
"You are easily pleased then, Master Baggins!"
Startled, Bilbo looked up and over at the narrow staircase which lead up from the street to his balcony. Slowly climbing the stairs, his dark grey suit accompanied by a pale white scarf, Gandalf Grey reached the ornamental gate decoratively barring stranger's entry and opened it.
"Gandalf! Good morning!" Bilbo beamed, getting to his feet, but his friend waved him down and without invitation sat down in the chair across from Bilbo. Groaning a little as he did, Gandalf sighed, "A good morning indeed, but I fear my muscles are not happy with me today." He grimaced as he straightened but shot Bilbo a small smile.
"Well, my friend, despite what you may think, full contact croquet is a young man's game and you are not a young…"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence, Master Baggins! Don't you dare!" Gandalf snapped his fingers at Bilbo, his mouth pursed in anger but his eyes alight with laughter. His beard was more grey and white these days and while he kept it fairly short and well-trimmed, Gandalf nonetheless refused to cave into the fashion of shaving off a beard to appear younger. "I'll have you know, Bilbo, that not only did we win yesterday by a good margin, I ran my mark into the ground! The young fool had the audacity to offer to 'take it easy on me'. Ha! Well, I showed him!"
Laughing, Bilbo nodded in agreement, leaning forward to pour some tea. "Oh, you surely did, but at what price, hm? Tea?"
"Thank you, yes. The price was worth it. Impudent imp." Gandalf took a steamy cup of tea from Bilbo, and snagged himself two biscuits at the same time. "I'm glad I popped by, if these are yours?" He waved one of the biscuits at Bilbo, the other already in his mouth.
Bilbo nodded, dunking his own biscuit, watching the golden texture turn dark with tea, "Yep, made them this morning."
"I hope there are more than that paltry plate, my dear Bilbo," Gandalf mumbled, not even bothering with dunking the biscuits. Tucking his book into the side pocket on his chair, Bilbo munched quietly, not needing to reply. Gandalf knew there would be more biscuits.
"Any luck finding a TA yet?"
Gandalf's humph said it all, but he proceeded to regale Bilbo with the latest round of failed TA applicants. Bilbo was clutching his stomach, aching with laughter as Gandalf gesticulated furiously when the timepiece 'dinged' announcing the dough was ready. Wiping tears from his eyes, he stood and hiccupped, "I fear my friend that unless you allow for some level of immaturity you will remain snowed under with paperwork."
The kitchen was lovely and warm from the oven, and Gandalf followed him inside, sipping his second, perhaps third cup of tea. "As much as you are no doubt correct, Bilbo, I cannot abide foolishness of any sort. It continues to boggle my mind that honours and masters students who should know better, continue to act under the delusion that I am doing them the favour of hiring them." Bilbo pulled the dough out of the drawer and smiled at the good size which the dough had achieved. Normally, he'd prove the brioche one further time in the cold room, but as he was doing a hybrid muffin rather than a true brioche, he began mixing in the blueberries and some candied orange pieces, very gently.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Gandalf stretched his legs out and asked, "Are you planning another ramble?"
Bilbo shook his head, concentrating on the fruit, trying not to break the berries. "No, I had rather a hankering for muffins, so here we are." One of the berries, slightly overripe already burst and left a trail of bright blue purple in the dough. Conscious that the fruit and its moisture made the dough heavier, Bilbo hesitated. A vision of a pale, vanilla muffin with bright swirls of purple through it, dotted with orange and sugar popped into his head and he hummed to himself. Listening to Gandalf with half an ear, Bilbo quickly mashed up a few berries, strained the pulp, tossed in some sugar and honey and gently worked the swirl through the dough, before shaping the dough into balls which fit in a muffin tin. Brushing the dough with an egg wash, he gently slide them into the oven. Hopeful that his experiment would work, he dusted off his hands and said brightly, "Fancy another cuppa?"
"Oh, no," Gandalf sighed, "I am due at the Dean's office for lunch."
"Heads of Department?" Bilbo asked, joining Gandalf at the table, taking a tea biscuit off the diminishing pile. Gandalf nodded, mouth full of biscuit. "Why do you think I'm here, filling up on your fine baking, Bilbo. I swear the Dean has the palate of a mole. Bland, tasteless and feeble appears to his standard order for the caterers."
Bilbo bobbed his head in agreement, well aware of the standard of some University dinners. Content silence filled the room, as the happy aromas of vanilla tea biscuits mixed with the sharp fruity muffin/buns.
"Say, why don't you cater for the University?"
Startled for the second time that morning, Bilbo nearly choked on his biccie and stared at Gandalf, eyes wide and watering. "Wha?"
Gandalf's expression was one of rapidly growing realisation and a smattering of cunning. It was an expression Bilbo had long ago learned to fear when he first met his friend. As a first year student starting his first degree, his unlikely friendship with his professor's TA had surprised both of them. Gandalf Grey, double major in Pyrotechnics and Diplomacy was reading for his Masters in International Negotiation and Strategic Manipulation when young Bilbo Baggins had taken Professor Gil-galad's class, The Art of Diplomacy: When lying stops a war. Their friendship was born on the evening they spent engaged in a heated debate on the ethics of deception to serve the greater good and secrecy vs the greater good. Despite their vastly differing opinions, their friendship was solidified over the course of the semester and while Bilbo had abandoned all classes associated with Diplomacy, they had continued to meet often to argue and debate. Mostly argue.
Undeterred by his spluttering friend, who was reaching for his handkerchief, Gandalf beamed, "You'd be marvellous, dear Bilbo! Just imagine the bounty and range of biscuits, buns and breads you could sell to starved Professors. You'd corner the market, I dare say. Most of us would kill a student for a good biscotti or three."
"I, I, I…don't," Bilbo coughed. Gandalf slapped him on the back and once the biscuit was dislodged, Bilbo spluttered, "I think not. I think not. The occasional biscuit or cake is one thing, but supply a horde of gannets and gluttons. No, no, no. No thank you."
The worrying expression did not fade from Gandalf's face, in fact it deepened, like he was shuffling cards in his head, aligning his thoughts. Before his friend could concoct any madcap ideas, Bilbo stood and pointed his finger firmly at Gandalf, "I am not a baker, Gandalf. Nor do I want to be. I bake for pleasure not money and I absolutely refuse to discuss this any further!"
Gandalf remained silent, and nodded solemnly. His eyes however gave him away, and Bilbo shook his finger at them too for good measure. "I mean it, Professor Grey!"
"Come, I have time for a smoke before I must be off. Join me?" Gandalf stood to his impressive height, dark suit un-creased and neat. Bilbo considered refusing the offer, just to emphasise how displeased he was, but the prospect of some Old Toby was too enchanting to resist, so he agreed with a grumble.
Gandalf left with two muffins straight from the oven, too hot to eat but tucked into his pocket after being wrapped in a serviette. Bilbo slathered some butter onto his muffin, watched it melt and he bit into it with far more ferocity than the soft muffin warranted. It was heavenly. The blueberry ripple could use some work, but as a concept, he had a winner. As he buttered up a second one, Bilbo refused to think of the lie that still echoed in his head. I do not want to be baker. Instead, shoving the rest of the muffin into his mouth, and grabbing one of his mother's finest 'every day' plates for the other, he stormed off into his study. It was time to plan his next trip.