Author's Note: Here it is! The fifth idea for the "Jedi Cooking Lessons" series I started. Like the others, this one can be read on its own (though I hope you read the others too😉). This is currently the last idea I have for this series, but if I ever get another one I will definitely include it. Feel free to PM me if you get any ideas too! Anyway, enjoy guys!


The hot wind scorched what little of his skin was exposed to the blistering elements. He tried to huddle further inside his fraying cloak, simultaneously keeping a tight grip on his lumbering beast with his knees. Another gust of wind, and he drew the cloak even more firmly around his - currently - most prized possession. A cloth-covered dish.

Made out of clay and rounded like a bowl, he tried to remember the last time he'd eaten out of something so… frugal. And plain. Yet so connected to the planet it had come from. Most of the last of his life had been meal trays from Republic warship cafeterias, with their durasteel utensils and dishware. Or the similar items from the Temple Meal Hall, just as cold and impersonal. Jedi had no need of fancy, ornamented dishes. Leave those to the Senator's banquets (that he'd also invariably had to attend). No, the Jedi would keep their simple ware.

And now he had something even simpler.

So while the wind howled and threw sand in his face, and the eopie tried to tilt him off, Obi-wan Kenobi held the dish close… and tried not to think of past days.


It was a long journey. Over a whole day roundtrip. He stopped a handful of times to let the eopie rest and have water, but for the most part, the animal didn't need it. It was a hardy beast, in its element among the sands of the desert. Its waddling gait made reading impossible (what few items he hadn't already read numerous times over, that was), so the only thing Obi-wan had to keep himself occupied was thought.

Thought. Thinking. Think about what? Endless possibilities, most of them dangerous ground. Had he not already relived Mustafar innumerable times over? Or the birth of the children of his once-brother and his dear friend? Or his secret attendance of said friend's funeral? Despite the urgency to get the twins to safety, he'd found himself unable to "abandon" the woman who had been the source of so much strife… and so much love… who had shown so much strength and resilience in the face of increasingly dangerous times. Hadn't wanted to "abandon" her to the slew of admirers and mourners who only knew a small part of her life. Who only knew the public part, the Senator, the Queen. He would have regretted it for the rest of his life if he hadn't said a proper goodbye to Padmé Amidala. To bear witness to the secret part of her life that had resulted in so much joy, and eventually, pain. To promise her - just like he'd promised Qui-gon so many years ago on the same planet - that her death would not be in vain. Her children would be protected, and loved, and nurtured. And when the time was right… the Skywalker's might save them all.

But he didn't need to think about that again.

Thus the question remained: how to pass the time?

He found his thoughts turning to the contents of the dish currently clutched in his hands. It had been trial and error, learning to make this dish. He'd had it a few times in town when he'd first arrived on Tatooine, before he had any supplies of his own. When he'd finally got his own settlement up and running and discovered the patch of local grain growing nearby, he'd been overjoyed. At least he had one steady source of food. And it happened to be the same grain as something he'd already eaten, so luckily he knew it was edible.

But then, he didn't think he believed in luck anymore.

Weeks had passed. He'd managed to collect several different versions of the recipe - and spices enough to try them all - and had been in the process of testing his third one when he got the idea for his trip.

Now, here he was.

He didn't dare open the lid and peek inside for fear sand would render it inedible immediately, but he could picture it. Hundreds of tan grains of rice, dark, light, and green flecks of spices scattered throughout. Quite safe enough to mash into a paste for a baby's first solid food. Or… how old was it before human children could move away from liquids? Obi-wan frowned, realizing he didn't know the answer. Well, they'll never make me a crѐche master, that's for sure.

A pain in his heart. So strong, so fierce, that for a second he wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. There aren't any crѐche masters. There isn't any crѐche. But no, it was already fading. He aided its departure by swiftly, ruthlessly banishing such thoughts. He couldn't afford them. There is no fear, there is peace. There is… is no death, there is the Force.

But Obi-wan Kenobi rarely felt peace anymore. The closest he came now was hollow.

And the wind drove him on.


Double sunset wasn't too far off when Obi-wan finally made it to his destination. The wind had calmed, as if it knew of his mission and had decided to finally grant him some relief. So it was with little trouble that he climbed off the eopie - he really needed to give her a name - gave her a pat on the neck before carefully crossing the short distance to the door of the Lars' homestead.

He almost raised a hand to knock, before pausing, thinking. Perhaps… perhaps it would be best if his presence went unknown. A newborn child was quite a lot of work - that was why he had brought the meal, after all - and he really didn't want to intrude. No, he'd just… leave it on the doorstep. They would find it when they locked up for the night, which - he glanced up at the sky - would be quite soon. Yes. Yes, that's what he'd do.

Setting the dish down gently, and climbing back onto his beast of burden, he set off into the last rays of double sunset. He didn't look back.

He hadn't gone very far - he could just make out the house behind him in the twilight if he squinted - when he felt a spike, a small wave of surprise and gratitude swell in the Force. He smiled, the wave felt all the more because of the giver's unawareness that it could be given.

For a moment in time, Obi-wan didn't feel so alone.


A week later, he came back with another dish, prepared to enter and leave the same way as last time… but was brought up short by what greeted him on the doorstep.

There sat his dish, polished to a shine, a note on top with a simply scribbled "Thank you".

A smile warmed his face as he deftly swapped the pots. And as he recrossed the threshold of the homestead, and as he went on his way.

Perhaps next time, he would let himself be known. Check on Luke. Yes, that might be an idea.

The wind picked up once again, this time not so harsh as it was gentle, swirling around him in an embrace as if to say, welcome. You will do well here.

Obi-wan Kenobi headed off into the sunset… to live, cry, and love another day.

The End