Cooking Lessons
"Ewwww! What's that stink?"
Tenerië looked up from the iron kettle she was monitoring and hid a smile at the grimace on Faramir's face. "Ink. Or rather, what will be ink when it's done cooking." She dropped another handful of oak galls into kettle. "You wanted to know how to make ink, so come in and take that expression off your face. You don't want it to freeze that way."
The eight year-old shook his head and reluctantly entered the workroom, halting a good distance from the pungent kettle. "It smells like a dead fish. But the ink you use doesn't smell that way."
"Of course, it doesn't. It only smells this way when it's cooking. You'll get used to it." Tenerië told him. "The smell comes from the black sacs of small krakens--."
"Krakens?" Faramir interrupted. "I know what they are! My cousin Elphir caught one by accident when we were fishing on Uncle Imrahil's boat one summer."
"As I was saying." Tenerië gave him one of her best glares and watched as her student flushed with embarrassment then adopted a penitent expression.
"Sorry, Tenerië," Faramir apologised.
"You will be. Come over here. Since you forgot your manners, you can come here and stir this 'stinky' stuff while I get the other ingredients ready."