"This stewed beef goes so well with these potatoes." Fin's mother said to no one in particular. "It's like they were meant for each other."

Fin shared an exasperated look with his father as his mother made another off-handed comment that wasn't subtle in the least.

"I agree," Hildred's mother said from across the table. "This would be the perfect dish for a wedding reception."

The two women began shamelessly planning a nondescript, hypothetical wedding that wasn't as hypothetical as they led on. Everyone knew what they were up to; it was why the two families met more and more frequently to share meals. They were trying to join the two farms by the bonds of holy matrimony, but Fin would never marry Hildred, not in a thousand years.

"It needs salt," Hildred's greasy opinion came from across the table as two greasier fingers bludgeoned their way into the salt dish. Most of the salt crystals stuck to her pudgy fingers, causing her to reach in a second time.

Fin was a seventh-generation potato farmer expected to take over the family farm and pass it to the eighth. The problem was there were few suitable options for him to marry within a ten-kilometer radius of the farm. Still, there was Hildred, and the Grober family farm was only an hour away.

"I agree with Hildred," Fin's father said, picking up the salt dish and flicking out as much of the contaminated salt as he could. "I would spend a few years perfecting the recipe before trying to serve it at any wedding reception. It's good, but it needs time."

Fin suppressed a satisfied smile; they were clearly not talking about the food, and his father just told them all to back off for a few years. He was almost eighteen and could run the farm alone, but his father didn't need to rely on him anytime soon. His father frequently told him he could take off, explore the world, and return when ready to settle down. If he decided to come back with a wife, all the better. His mother, however, wasn't a patient woman.

"Nonsense," his mother protested. "If all it needs is a little salt, I don't see the problem."

"And butter," Hildred reached for the butter dish.

"Here, let me get that for you," her mother said, picking up the butter dish and putting a very conservative scoop on her plate.

Hildred looked accosted by the minuscule slab of butter her mom gave her. "More butter."

Fin glanced at his father, who was containing a laugh by meticulously wiping his face with his napkin.

"I think it's really good," Fin said quickly, finishing the last bite on his plate. "Can I be excused, please?"

"See?" Fin's mother said. "A match made by Frome."

"I was talking about the meal," Fin said off-handedly. "I should go grab some dirt before it gets dark."

"Very well," Fin's father said. "You better hurry."

Fin stood and bade farewell to their company. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Mrs Grober. Hildred, you too."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Always a pleasure Finlay," Mrs Grober said.

Fin stood and waited for Hildred to respond. Her mouth was full, and she made no effort to chew faster. A long, quiet moment ensued before she reached into her mouth, pulled out a thin piece of gristle, and said, "Bye, Fin."

Fin stepped outside and breathed in the warm summer air. He had ash-colored hair that he let fall around his shoulders in the winter and kept tied behind his head with a leather strap in the summer. He stood just a little taller than his father. His father had explained that each generation grew taller than the last. It was something to do with the potatoes.

Fin walked around the cabin, gripped the wooden cart holding a shovel, and began walking it down a well-beaten path through the tree line. As far as he was concerned, his chores were done for the day. He just needed an excuse to escape from the conversations about his marriage inside. He had told his mother he wasn't interested in marrying Hildred, but she ignored him. As soon as he was 18, he would take his father's advice and leave for a while. That should give his mother time to cool down.

The cart rumbled as it rolled down the secret road his great, great, great grandfather made all those years ago. The story his father told was that old Abernanthy was traveling through these woods when he saw movement from a clearing in the trees. He silently moved forward when he saw a grey dragon perched on a rock, just staring into the view beyond. He stood motionless behind a tree until it finally jumped up and flew off. Abernanthy investigated the spot the dragon was in to find a massive pile of what he called "prime manure." He had found the dragon's favorite spot to sit and, well, do what anyone does in a quiet place with a relaxing view.

Abernanthy carted some of the manure out, experimented with it to grow potatoes, and found that it made the best he had ever produced. He started the Dragon's Throne Farm, and people still travel to buy and trade for the overpriced potatoes. People say they are the best potatoes they have ever had, and some swear they have healing properties.

Fin came up to the clearing where the secret ingredient to their potatoes lay in a pile that still stood in a massive mound even though they had carted it off for years. Just beyond the hill of mythical dirt stood a wall of giant boulders with a perfect groove for a dragon to perch on if it was so inclined. Fin didn't necessarily believe the story. All he knew was one of his chores was to periodically cart the dirt back to the farm, and one day he would probably make his son do the same thing.

He rolled the cart next to the dirt and climbed the massive boulders. Here, he lounged in the crook of the rock and looked out, as he had done so many times before, at the view that was so relaxing to the dragon. Round hills curved up and down, crisscrossing each other and flowing gently to the next. He didn't know about dragons, but it was a nice and relaxing view.