Porter Engle was a legend. He’d been in the Jedi Order for over three hundred years, a burly Ikkrukki who, at this point, was more beard than being. He had explored full careers in most of the primary Jedi roles in his time—teacher, explorer, diplomat, warrior—and the stories told about him in any one of those occupations would be enough to ensure his status in the chronicles. He had just one eye, for example, the other lost long ago, a long scar down his face a story of its own. But now he was nearing the end of his span, and his latest and final calling seemed to be cook. The stew really did have nine different kinds of egg in it, but Porter would only reveal five of them. The remaining sources were either too rare or too revolting for him to divulge. Whatever was in it, the stuff was good.

LoTJ Chapter 22

Outwardly, the Ikkrukki was calm, but Bell sensed roiling energy in the man. Porter Engle, the kindly cook, inventor of ingenious dishes and dispenser of useful aphorisms, was being set aside. What was appearing in his place felt like a dormant volcano beginning to wake—simmering and ready, filled with unimaginable power. The ancient Jedi was summoning up a ghost: one of his former lives. A version of himself the Padawans told stories about. Someone the sort of people who attacked defenseless settler families should pray they never met.

LoTJ Chapter 25