As the first blush of dawn tickled the rim of the Shire, a particular hobbit stirred under his quilted covers. Frodo Baggins, with his curls as wild as the Old Forest and eyes brighter than the Star of Earendil, had an appetite larger than a dragon's hoard this fine morn. "Ahh," he sighed, stretching out his limbs like a languid cat, "What I'd give for a fine trout breakfast." The idea planted itself in his mind, as stubborn as a Took at an eating contest. With a flicker of determination in his eyes, Frodo sprang from the comforts of his circular abode, though forgot in his fish-fueled frenzy to clothe himself. The sunbeams kissed his pale, hobbit cheeks - and I'm not referring to the ones on his face. His derriere, as free as a Brandybuck at a feast, jiggled like a jelly dessert with each eager step he took towards his cherished fishing pond. 'Twould give the moon a run for its money for roundness and the envy of any Bree baker for its doughy consistency. Upon reaching the pond, Frodo's precious (not The Precious) silhouette melded with the serene backdrop. The hobbit's approach to the water's edge was comparable to that of a graceful swan, if only the swan were a small, naked creature with curled foot hair that rivaled the grass in lushness. As he waded into the lapping waters, a series of expressions washed over his face: the initial scrunch of toes in chilly waters to the wide-eyed acceptance of nature's brisk embrace. Frodo, now thigh-deep in pond water and as concentrated as a wizard deciphering ancient scrolls, readied himself for the hunt. "A slight tilt forward, and," he murmured to himself as he prepared his unusual technique. With fortitude in his heart and a smile tickling his lips, he released the mightiest of farts to ever grace the Greenfields. The backdoor symphony was nothing short of epic - a bellowing blast that would have made Gandalf's fireworks shy. As Frodo reveled in the sweet release, an armada of bubbles trailed from the culprit, blissfully frolicking to the surface like tiny, gassy jellyfish ascending from the deep. Below the waterline, the trout were caught unawares by the unsavory scent suffusing their once-pristine waters. One by one, they went belly-up, stunned into submission by what could only be described as Frodo's natural charm. "All's fair in love and fishing," Frodo chortled, scooping the dazed fish into his sack with glee. Soon, back within the warm confines of Bag End, Frodo laid his conquest upon the kitchen bench. "You shall be a breakfast for a king, or at least a hobbit with kingly hunger," he sang out in half-clad joy. Filleted with finesse, seasoned with a dash of ale he'd saved from last night's revelries, the trout sizzled in the pan. Oh, what a dinner-breakfast it was! Each bite was a taste of victory, as Frodo savored the fish alongside freshly baked bread and crispy taters, "The secret," he confided to his empty chair across the table, "is in the merest hint of desperation and a dash of hobbit ingenuity." As he feasted upon his spoils, one could not help but think this was a scene worth of tale or song - the morning Frodo Baggins bested the noble trout of the Shire with nothing but his wit, his will, and his wondrously toxic tooshie.