"Frodo," Rosie said warily, "What is that supposed to be?"
Frodo looked up sharply from the bench where he was fiddling awkwardly with something blackened and rounded that vaguely resembled the ashes of a pie. He brushed his hands on his trousers. "It's apple pie, Rosie!"
Rosie lifted an eyebrow. "Apple pie?" She peered at it. A large section of the crust had collapsed and descended into the middle of the pie: Frodo was now attempting to reassemble it with leftover bits of mushed-up apple. Rosie coughed.
"Frodo, dear, when the roof of your house falls in, you can't rebuild it by sticking the old tiles back over the hole."
Frodo smiled. "No, Rosie, but I can't fix this hole any other way, you see? I'm sure it'll be edible. It might be slightly deformed, but not useless."
Rosie smiled back and leaned over to kiss his cheek gently. "That's true, Frodo." She grinned. "But I maintain that you've got a cheek to call it a pie."
"Very well," Frodo conceded, "I call it - modern art!"
Rosie laughed. "We don't hold with modern art in this house, Frodo, not if it intends to sit there doing nothing except look neglected." She linked an arm through his. "Come on, then, let's go and see if we can persuade Sam to try this very dubious masterpiece misnamed a pie."
~