Like Mother Used to Make

There is no food in Valinor.

There is lembas and other wondrous edibles, all seasoned to perfection, every one of them a delight to the senses. And each, once eaten, as insubstantial as the air.

There is no food; nothing that sticks to the ribs, nothing real.

That one elf, that Felagund fellow, he seems to understand. He made ale once, bless him. He meant well, but it was as bland as water.

Elves survive on beauty. Dwarves require something more substantial; food that settles like a brick in the stomach, a chewing exercise that can last for hours.

Cram.