Mum was never a good cook. She always burnt her stew a bit. Or she'd throw the onions almost raw into the mix. Or she'd forget to butter the cake batter and end up making a kind of hard bread.
I remember the faces my father would make, trying to hide how salty the soup was, so that my mother wouldn't notice. I felt like getting angry with her, but Dad always said it was better not to spend our time together at the table arguing over silly things.
When I proposed to my mother that I should be in charge of the meal, I understood what my father meant. The moment when we all sat down after a tiring day's work and began to eat by the light of the fire was the best moment of the day. The muscles relaxed, the stomach was satisfied and after a couple of beers, laughter filled the house.
I think that if my mother had been an excellent cook I wouldn't have taken the trouble to learn so many recipes, asking the neighbors, looking through the old books on the scholar's staircase, reading with difficulty all those strange words. And now I wouldn't know what to do.
It's been six months since mum died and I think I'm better. I still get sad at times, but I think that will be for good, because it's been so many years since dad died and I still miss him.
And, of course, I'm almost out of savings, so I've got to get off my butt and do more than just run errands for the neighbours in Staddle. That's earned me a few coins, but I can't live like this forever.
I guess I needed some time to think. At first I thought I'd be enough by sticking to what dad taught me, being a good farmer and taking care of the land. But I think I want to fulfil mama's dream and become a good merchant, someone who can afford to invite many to her table every night and bring back the laughter by the fire.
I hear there will be a market at Thorin's Hall a few days from now. It's a bit of a gamble, but with what I have left I can buy some ingredients, prepare some tasty dishes when I get there and try to make a fortune. That would help me get a fresh start.
I don't have much experience with dwarves, but the only one I've met seems to me to be very nice people. I'd like to meet him again but... I can't remember his name. I wish he'd had a simple name like Tim or Robert, but no, long-bearded, short-legged gentlemen have to wear things like Tubin (or was it Durin) or Thorin.
But then again, I'm not one to complain. Mum named me Meldanyel after a great aunt she had in Dale, but I think she made it up. I'm often called Melly or Meldy or Daniel by neighbours or people at the market and I don't know if I like it or hate it.
Anyway, I wish I could find that dwarf again and thank him for what he did for me. It's not much, but I'm sure he wouldn't say no to a good beer from Bree. I don't know what drinks they drink in those lands...but my ale is better!
I've been testing Dad's old barrels, making brews so I can sell them later. The first one that came out tasted awful, almost like sucking on a rotten lemon. Not that I know what a rotten lemon tastes like, but I can imagine.
But then I started to get the hang of it and I think I have a keg of something pretty decent. I don't know if I'll find any dupes who want to try it, but maybe I'll drop by The Pony one night and offer it up. Although if I do it would have to be tonight or tomorrow, because it's soon to be market in Thorins Hall....
Anyway.
I have also decided to start this diary. They gave me the papers and pen (ink and all) at the Scholar's Ladder, because I told them my mother wanted me to practice reading and writing. I still make some mistakes (I don't quite understand how to write tho....thoro...thorough....whatever), but I will get better.
So, dear diary, get ready because I'm going to visit you a lot in the next few days!
