10. Roots
I walk up my steps and immediately head for the kitchen. My shock of earlier fully gone, I recall what I was so preoccupied with before Haymitch's screams. It was the idea of preparing some signature recipe for the potluck tomorrow. I want whatever I cook to make everyone want more. I want it to be a real contribution; something that everyone in town will want to know how to cook.
I have pulled out almost every spice in the cabinets before I remember an old cookbook that I've seen my mother use before. I search through all of the cabinets and find it. It is a large deep blue book with large loopy letters that say "Recipes" on the front and filled with recipes scrawled in my mother's handwriting. I turn to the index on spices and gather any I have that match those in the book. Then I turn to the section on stews. When I am surrounded by meat, ingredients, spices and pots I begin.
I try rosemary, lemon, and chicken. It is far too zesty. I try ground beef with cayenne and thyme, but the amount of thyme makes it taste like dirt. I try lamb and beef, pepper, oregano, and garlic. It just tastes murky. Annoyed at my missteps, I begin to quickly flip through the pages when an odd-looking page catches my eye. The title and ingredients are written in long strokes that sweep widely. I recognize the handwriting to be my mother's. But as my eyes scan downward, the words on the page start to blur into messier letters and more static strokes and after a few moments I suddenly recognize the handwriting: it belongs to my father.
I hadn't noticed before this moment how numb I've been. Not feeling anything really. I suspect that I am no longer able to feel some things. But when I see my father's handwriting, think of how he and my mother loved each other. How much they both loved us, Prim and me, I cannot help but to feel a little wavering inside of me. And slowly it creeps up my insides until I am almost trembling as I focus back on the handwritten page.
I read each ingredient and tears cloud my eyes as I know with everything inside me that they were never able to make this meal while my father lived. I don't know that we ever had more than even two of these ingredients in the house when he was living. But I have them all. It's as if my parents wrote the recipe for Prim and me. As if they knew-or at least hoped-that one day we'd be able to prepare it. The idea makes me feel more than a little unsteady, but it gives me something I haven't had in a long while; something to hold onto.
I pull the ingredients out slowly. The onions, tomatoes, garlic, green peppers, beef chops, sea salt, carrots, and green beans. Finally, I glance at the bottom drawer of the fridge and think of the small package, the small brown package that Peeta first bought me so long ago, immediately after our Victory Tour, but before the Quell. After we'd agreed to try being friends, Peeta happened to see them once in the market and brought them to me, promised me he would always make sure I had them. I try to trust that Peeta kept his word as I open the drawer.
I was right, because sure enough, here they are. They look fairly fresh, so I know that he had to have bought these sometime recently, sometime since we've both been back in District 12. It occurs that Haymitch may have delivered them. Maybe even Greasy Sae seeing as she has a set of keys that I never took back. I let go of how they came to be here and try to just be thankful that they are. I set the brown package on the counter and rip it all the way open. Out fall at least a dozen small, bluish katniss roots.
I wake up late in the morning and decide that I will try my hand at looking nice today. The sleep was restful, and I don't remember the dream, but I know that it wasn't bad because, again, I always remember the bad ones.
I try on the loose black pants that Cinna bought me upon one of his trips here. I pair it with a long-sleeved yellow shirt that Effie surely stuffed in this closet along with all of the many dresses, jewelry, and shoes that I never wear. I think the fabric may be silk but it's very uncomfortable. Too tight near my bust. I take it off and put on another one. This one is a light blue with sleeves that stop at my elbows. The buttons are grotesque looking pearls, which I scratch to make sure they aren't real. When I'm satisfied that they aren't I survey myself. My hunting boots don't go well with this. I settle on a plain pair of black flats. One thing Effie never succeeded in was trying to get me to wear heels outside of the charades I played for the Capitol. Apparently, even Effie knew that was a battle she'd never win. I am satisfied with my hair after I tie it into a French braid that starts on the side of my head and curls down until my fire-damaged hair stops in a small tail at my neck.
I look into the mirror and try to see myself the way others have; as a desirable girl. A beautiful one, according to Peeta. I am not terrible to look at, but I have never seen much beauty in myself. Especially after everything I've done and all those whose blood still stains my hands, those whose names tick off my tongue endlessly for my counting game.
Not wanting the day to turn dark, I shake out the thoughts and walk down the stairs. There on the counter is the Katniss Stew, which turned out deliciously. So delicious, in fact, that I had to make the recipe twice just so that I'd have enough to take to the dinner today. I silently thank my parents for their gift, tell myself to call my mother when I get the chance. Then, I walk out the door and make my way gingerly down the stoned walk, undisturbed by either the sight of Peeta or the voice of Haymitch.
I am less than five steps into the square, when I feel someone's fingers locking around my arm. My breath catches in surprise, and I turn sharply dropping my stew, as I try unsuccessfully to wrest my arm away.
I look up angrily and am greeted by the steely grey eyes of Gale.
