Character & place names are copyright J. R. R. Tolkien & The Tolkien Estate
The Battle of the Kitchen
'I concede that of the land,
And all the fields hereabouts,
Mr Maggot my good husband,
Is the master, there's no doubt.
Yet in the kitchen or the larder,
There is another lord,
(Leastways, I say 'lady' rather),
One that rules not with the sword,
But with apron and with ladle,
And with trusty wooden spoon.
Just as long as I am able,
I'll be mistress of this room!'
Quite a stirring speech she spoke,
With arms folded on her breast,
Farmer Maggot fairly choked,
And thought retreat was for the best.
'Well my lad, then off you go,
And fetch those mushrooms quick.
Those fresh milkcaps are one foe,
You cannot threaten with your stick!'
First ensuring he was gone,
Her bodice she was hitchin',
And with a straightenin' of her apron,
Began the battle of the kitchen.
'First the flour and salt and butter,
Tamed with fingers for the pastry.
Time it right,' she's heard to utter,
'And the shortcrust will be tasty.'
From the jug, she pours cold water,
Besting it with her flat knife.
She shapes the dough just like you oughta,
Just as she'd done it all her life.
Over the dough, she puts a cloth,
And takes up trusty skillet.
'Pastry's ready for the off,
Now for something good to fill it.'
Chopping an onion on the board,
Whilst melting butter in her pan,
Then glancing crossly at the door,
She calls out 'Hurry, if you can!
I be needing those fresh buttons,
So bring 'em quickly do.
They be tastier than mutton,
In a pie or in a stew.'
'I'm a coming, no call to shout.'
Says Maggot bursting in,
'Set them down and step right out,
Or get a whack with my baking tin!'
Warns the mistress of the table,
And Maggot he's withdrew,
Just as fast as he is able,
As all wise folk would do.
Now the basket she upturns,
Sending milkcaps to their doom,
'Don't you dare to burn,
And be smoking up this room!'
She warns the mushrooms sternly,
Whilst knocking them about,
With a spoon kept clean and handy,
And not a single one jumps out.
Crushed peppercorns to season,
Chopped parsley, salt and sage,
It's not without good reason,
She's called the wisest of the age.
Here is magic in the making,
Weaving herb and seed and leaf,
See this sorceress creating,
Something quite beyond belief.
A quart of cream is heated,
And the filling's nearly done,
The mushrooms are defeated,
She has got them on the run.
She gives her rolling-pin a flourish,
With it she sets about the dough,
But he hasn't got the courage,
To stand up to such a foe.
Now with knife in hand she cuts him,
And pushes him into the tin,
Then the mushroom filling puts in,
Sealing the crust around the rim.
With a brush of egg she glazes,
And now pricks it with a fork.
She steps back a pace and gazes,
At the results of all her work.
Farmer Maggot, the hungry diner,
Eyeing the table where it lies,
Declares 'There's truly nothing finer,
Than one of me missus' mushroom pies!'
