Bilbo hummed to himself as he pottered about the kitchen, wiping counter tops and washing the breakfast dishes while he waited for the kettle to boil. He had intended to sit down with his book after breakfast, but he was finding it very hard to describe Rivendell. It was quite easy to remember, but though it was a bright spot in his memories, the only truly enjoyable portion really, he was finding that it was quite difficult to make that sort of thing interesting when written down. Or at least, not when written into the sort of story that his was. There was little room for descriptions of the beautiful gardens or the singing competitions in the evenings, or the Hall of Fire, or even the glorious meals they had eaten everyday.

As he got out a fresh loaf of bread and some cheese to nibble on while he worked, Bilbo found himself chuckling. He had heard many songs and pieces of beautiful poetry in Rivendell, about the stars and the trees and the river, and about ancient heroes and wars and cities that, according to those same songs, now lay in ruins in the deepest parts of the Sea. But it seemed Elves didn't think things like comfortable chairs and hot tea and cheese and bread worthy of verse. Of course, hobbits didn't either, except in drinking songs, but hobbits didn't go in for poetry in general.

"Well," Bilbo said out loud, as his kettle started to sing, "that sounds like a challenge. I wonder, what rhymes with 'bread and cheese'?"

By teatime he had not written a single word in his book, but he had three drafts of a lay on cheese making and the start of a song about root vegetables, and he counted it a very productive day.