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Katniss has returned home from hunting, and although her haul is relatively meager, she’s pleased with it. She’s gotten in the habit of hunting on Saturdays, and while it’s nice to get out into the woods alone, she’s always glad to be back. Peeta is always excited to see her, too, as if he half-expects her to never return. After all they’ve been through, she can’t say she blames him.
Eager to see her husband and children, Katniss slips inside their home. She’s quiet, but Peeta has said that if he’s listening carefully he can hear her boots at the door, and she knows he listens for it. Peeta’s welcomes are so warm and genuine, and the way his face lights up the moment she walks through the door reminds Katniss of her mother and father. She’s sure she looks at him the same way because no matter how much time passes, she still hates being apart from him for even a little while. She’s glad Peeta seems to feel the same; managing to keep that spark alive after nearly twenty years and two children is quite a feat, even for a pair of victors.
Today, he’s not there to greet her at the door, so she assumes he’s either off playing a game with the children or perhaps baking. When Peeta is baking, he goes into another world entirely, and it’s nearly impossible to break his concentration. This has afforded Katniss the opportunity of sneaking up on him on more than one occasion. It’s fun‒reminding her of that time with Finnick in the Quell, which she thinks on both fondly and sadly‒but sometimes she’d much prefer watching Peeta out of sight.
She does that, a lot.
Katniss loves watching her husband bake; it’s one of her favorite things to do. The care and precision he takes, the look of concentration on his face, and of course, those big, strong hands, she could watch him work for hours…
And she does.
Whether she’s seated at the counter, her presence known to him, or lingering in the doorway just out of sight, it’s a pleasant experience, one she never grows tired of.
The heavy door creaks slightly as Katniss shuts it behind her. She tugs off her boots and leaves them by the door then heads for the kitchen to freeze her latest kill. As she turns the corner, she catches sight of a blond head and familiar backside. There’s her husband, dressed in a white t-shirt, pants, and apron, methodically preparing ingredients for baking something. Their four-and-a-half-year-old daughter Olive is perched on the edge of the kitchen island, her bare feet dangling. And nearby sits their two-year-old son Dillon in his booster chair, craning his neck to see what’s going on.
Consequently, they named their oldest child Olivia‒Olive for short‒because she was about the size of an olive in the womb. Peeta referred to her as such, and the name kind of stuck. And as for Dillon, he was named after an herb, which reminded Katniss of Peeta.
Katniss should’ve expected to find her family in the kitchen, for the holiday season is upon them, and Peeta has turned the Mellark household into a baker’s paradise. Not that Peeta doesn’t bake almost daily, but around the holidays, it’s a whole other story. The place is constantly awash with sweet and savory scents, and not to mention, he’s been teaching Olive a little. She’s old enough now to know more about what she’s doing, and he says it’s good to start early, in practice for the upcoming big festivals. There’ll be a large feast to end autumn and then begins the wintry gift-giving season.
Neither festival was a big deal for the Mellark or, especially, the Everdeen families while Peeta and Katniss were growing up. Katniss’s family barely had enough food to sustain themselves, and although Peeta’s lived in the merchant circle, most of their revenue and goods went to the Capitol, and his mother was very strict with what was left over.
But things are different now. And Peeta is taking full advantage of it for the sake of making their children happy.
Seeing Peeta bake with the children is like icing on the cake or an extra layer of cheese on the buns. Admittedly, it warms Katniss’s heart and turns her on in equal measure. It’s slightly strange to think of it as such, but seeing what a wonderful father Peeta is, in addition to the man she already knows he is, makes her need for him even greater.
Katniss almost wants to join in, but they’re having such a nice daddy-daughter-son moment that she doesn’t want to intrude. She’s content to watch them, anyway. She gets more pleasure out of observing Peeta with their children than most would being part of the fun. And he’s so good with them, a natural-born father.
Katniss leans against the wall and peeks inside to see what’s going on now.
Peeta is readying to bake cookies with Olive and Dillon, ginger molasses sugar cookies, to be precise. They recently popped into his head, and he thought Katniss and the kids might enjoy them. Well, Katniss and Olive, at least. Dillon might have to resort to tiny pieces or licking the cinnamon and sugar off.
Once he’s gotten everything out, he begins instructing Olive. “Okay, sweetheart, are you ready?” She nods emphatically. “Okay, first, we need to add the butter. Want to dump it in?”
“Mmhm!”
He hands her the stick, and she clenches it in her small hand. “Squishy…,” she mutters in astonishment.
“No, honey. Don’t squish it,” Peeta calmly tells her. “Take off the paper.” He helps her a little with the flap. “Get it all off. Good. Now, drop it in.” Olive makes it in the bowl, just barely, then proceeds to clap her hands at her own accomplishment. Peeta smiles.
“Here’s another one,” says Peeta. Olive gets the second stick in the bowl easier, and it lands with a resounding splat.
“Good. And now we need to add brown sugar, sugar, and molasses.” Peeta goes through his mental checklist.
“Daddy, how come you don’t use a res’pee?” asks Olive in that cute lisp of hers.
Assuming she means recipe, Peeta grins. “Because, sweetie, it’s all up here.” He taps his noggin. Of course, his mind is still not what it once was, or even what he wishes it to be. Some things are lodged in, rooted deep, but others, even small things, seem to have gotten lost in the labyrinth. Peeta’s relieved that he seems to have retained the most important things.
“Next, we cream it, which means we need to mix it together until it’s soft and fluffy.”
“I can make it soft, Daddy!” exclaims Olive. He stops her when her little hands are halfway in the bowl.
“Ah ah, not that way, sweetheart. Not with our hands.”
“Oh.”
She grabs a nearby spatula and begins hacking away at the sticks of butter. Peeta lets out a brittle laugh. “Here, honey. Use this.” He exchanges the spatula for a wooden spoon and shows her how to press down. She tries to do as he does, but she’s not quite strong enough, so Peeta takes the bowl away.
At first, Olive looks like she’s about to cry; then she gets indignant. Placing her hands on her hips and glaring up at him, she says vehemently, “Daddy, I want to help!”
“Of course, sweetheart. Daddy’s just getting you started.” He pecks her on the nose and tells her she’s doing a great job. Seemingly satisfied with this, Olive folds her arms and waits her turn like a good little girl.
From her vantage point, Katniss watches the cords in Peeta’s forearms twitch, his biceps bulging slightly beneath his white t-shirt as he quickly whips the butter into oblivion. They have an electric mixer, but Peeta doesn’t need it; he’s that strong.
When the mixture is significantly softened, Peeta places the bowl before Olive. “Now we’ll add the other ingredients, and then we’ll have to stir again. But it should be much easier with the butter softened.”
Peeta announces what he’s doing and puts in the brown sugar, a cup of it, and molasses, 6 teaspoons. When he’s finished and turns slightly to screw on the lid to the molasses, he catches a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Olive dragging a finger along the interior side of the bowl where some of the mixture has splattered. She sneaks a taste and makes a face. Grinning to himself, Peeta says nothing.
“Would you like to put the sugar in?“
“The white sugar?”
“Yes.” Peeta chuckles. “The white sugar.”
Olive reaches for the container of salt.
“Oh, no, that’s salt, sweetheart.”
“What’s the difference, Daddy?” She stares up at him with large, blue eyes. “Looks the same. It’s white.”
Peeta chuckles. “It may look the same, but it tastes very different. I’ll show you. Stick out your tongue.” He dabs a little on his finger and touches it to her tongue. She tastes it and cringes a little. As expected. Olive isn’t a salt-lover. It’s adorable, though, and Peeta simultaneously feels like laughing and giving her kisses. “Does it taste sweet like a cookie to you?”
She shakes her head. “No…hey, Daddy, you used your hands!”
Figures his daughter would catch that and point it out to him. “It’s okay this time. They were clean, and I’m not dipping it back in.”
He goes for the sugar, then, and using another finger, he does the same. “Does that taste sweeter?”
She nods, licking the sugar off her lips. “Can I have more?” He’s surprised she doesn’t grab his finger and start sucking on it, just to make sure she got every last crystal off his finger‒she’s a sweets-lover like her mother, after all.
“No,” Peeta laughs, “not right now, honey. First, we need to finish Mama’s cookies.”
“Can I lick the batter?”
“Uhh…” Peeta hates when the kids want to do that, although Katniss lets them get away with it. She’s eaten much rawer things in her day, and if he’s honest, he has, too (in the Games), but it’s not something he wants to make a habit of. Puts his stomach off. He doesn’t mean for his kitchen, or his daughter’s mouth, to be a salmonella laboratory. “We’ll see, baby.”
“Okay, so, we need a half cup of sugar,” Peeta continues. “Half of this thing.” He loops his finger through the handle of the measuring cup, jiggling it. Then he fills it halfway for her. She dumps it in and stares into the bowl in fascination as the sugar melds with the brownish golden mixture.
Her blue eyes shoot up to his. “What’s next, Daddy?”
“The salt,” he says. “Remember which one it is?”
“Uh-huh!” She bobs her head up and down.
“Good.”
Just then, Dill squeals from behind Peeta, and he turns his back on Olive in order to give him a little attention.
From behind them, Katniss watches as Olive faintly scowls. When Dill was born, she was the proudest big sister there was (at least since Katniss), but she soon became acquainted with jealousy. Oh, it wasn’t all the time, but Katniss and Peeta found that she got louder, more vocal, and sillier when Dill was getting all the attention.
As for Katniss, she never really felt sibling jealousy, not exactly. She did feel some envy over how wonderful she was. It still stung to think of her, maybe not like a fresh wound, but like a deep, enduring scar.
Katniss turns her attention back to Olive. Displeased with being ignored by her dad, their little girl has taken matters into her own hands.
“I did it, Daddy!” Olive announces.
“Did what, honey?” Peeta turns back to Olive and the bowl. “You put the salt in?”
She nods, smiling proudly.
Oh, he wishes she would’ve waited; although, he did have it already measured out into the teaspoon. He examines the counter. The teaspoon filled with salt is still there, but the salt canister’s spout is open. He’s sure he closed it. He’s surprised Olive was able to get it open. The sight of spilled granules on the counter around the canister confirms that she did, in fact, use salt.
But…
Peeta looks inside the mixing bowl, and it definitely appears to be more than just a teaspoon mingling with the other ingredients. He has a bad feeling about this. Just to be sure, he takes a taste of the mixture. He coughs.
“Olive, honey,” Peeta sputters, “how much did you put in?”
“One of those scoopie thingies.”
“A cup.” Peeta drags a hand down his face. “She used a whole cup…,” he mutters through his hand.
“Daddy, what’s wrong? Are you sick?” Olive asks, concerned.
Peeta removes his hand and gives her the sweetest smile he can muster. “No, baby. I’m fine.” He picks up the teaspoon and holds it out to her. “Baby, we only needed this much salt. This is a teaspoon.”
“So…I…I-I put in too-too much?” she blubbers. “Did I ruin Mama’s cookies?!”
Well, yes, but he’s not going to tell her that.
At her father’s silence, Olive’s eyes begin to water, and her lip trembles.
No, not the lip quiver, laments Peeta. The lip quiver combined with the watery eyes is his undoing!
“Oh, no. No, baby. Don’t cry…” Peeta sighs.
Poor Peeta, thinks Katniss from behind the wall. She should step in and help, but something holds her back. Maybe it’s that she doesn’t want to encroach upon what Peeta and the children are trying to do for her. And also, she trusts Peeta to handle the situation.
Damn, thinks Peeta. He’s usually much better at supervising while baking. However, he doesn’t usually do it with both of them; usually, Katniss has Dill while he bakes with Olive. Two active children are a lot to handle in the kitchen. And previous recipes have been simpler or more engaging for her.
Olive is sniffling now. Peeta thinks fast, scooping her up and swinging her around. He smothers her face in kisses until she’s giggling and kicking her legs wildly. Finally, he stops kissing her, and she stops kicking. She wraps her legs around his waist and winds her arms around his neck.
“It’s fine,” Peeta says, tapping her pert little nose. “It’s gonna be great. We’ll just call that a practice round and start fresh; no harm done.”
From her position, Katniss smiles. Knew he could do it.
But after the Batch 1 debacle, things only get worse…
Peeta’s trying to entertain an increasingly fidgety and fussy Dillon. Meanwhile, Olive is demanding of her daddy’s attention. She grows impatient and tugs on Peeta’s shirttail, which has come loose in all the hubbub, as he passes by. Katniss tries not to think of the implications of that. Peeta nearly loses his grip on the mixing bowl in his arms, but he holds fast to it.
Is it time to step in? Katniss wonders.
No, Peeta’s got it.
Katniss does, however, nearly make her presence known when she sees Dillon stretching his cute, chubby paw out toward the flour. She has Peeta’s name on her lips just as he grasps their son’s little hand in the nick of time.
“No, son,” Peeta chides, chuckling. And Katniss breathes a sigh of relief. “Well, that could have been a disaster,” she hears Peeta tell Olive as he moves the flour sack back slightly.
“Naughty, naughty, Dill-Dill,” Olive chastises, shaking her head and waving a finger at her little brother.
Cardamom is up next, thinks Peeta.
Cardamom. This gives him the idea of making a chai tea latte for Katniss later. He’s never made one for her, but she’ll probably like it, given her penchant for sweet drinks like hot chocolate. How something they drank in the Capitol became such a staple for them is beyond him, but it’s hard depriving themselves of something so good. And when something is good, it’s good, and you don’t always bother with where it came from.
Peeta imagines Katniss will also like a different type of sweet. Not to mention, she gets extra affectionate when he’s indulged that sweet tooth of hers…
Katniss notices then that Dill has achieved his objective, and when Peeta averted his eyes (how do they always know the second a parent looks away?), their toddler managed to grab hold of the edge of the flour sack. Dill’s tipped the sack over, its contents spilling out onto the counter, the floor, and onto him. He’s also had time, in the seconds Peeta’s been looking away, to smear the flour all over the counter, his shirt and pants, and his face.
Oh, Peeta, thinks Katniss. Never leave anything within reach of a two-year-old, even if you think there’s only a remote possibility he can reach it. Always err on the side of caution and keep it plenty far away.
Peeta sees what Dill has done. “Oh!” He quickly rights the not-yet empty sack of flour, which is still trickling out. With a huff, he looks between the mess and Dillon. “Dill,” he groans.
Good one, Peeta, he internally berates himself. That’s what you get for going off in your head and leaving children around baking ingredients! And it doesn’t help that he’s been daydreaming of Katniss so much today. One would think he was still a teenager rather than in his thirties!
Snapping to it, Peeta whisks Dill away under one arm. He moves him over to his highchair, far away from the island, and straps him in. Dill’s almost too big for the chair, but Peeta needs him temporarily restrained. His son stares up unhappily then starts to whine.
Peeta looks to Olive. “Can you watch your brother while I clean up this mess?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Please sit there,” says Peeta, pointing to the chair nearest Dill. “Keep your eyes on him, okay? Daddy needs to clean this up, so Mommy doesn’t come home to a messy kitchen.”
Olive bobs her head, climbs into the chair, and fixes Dill with a hard stare. “I’m watching you, Dill-Dill,” she says in an authoritative manner. “Be a good boy.”
Dill mumbles, “Good boy” and some other jumbled words, which Peeta doesn’t have time to decipher.
“No, not good. You were a bad boy,” he hears Olive argue.
“No, no, noo,” whines Dill, smacking his hands against the tray and shaking his head rampantly, making his blond curls bounce. “No bad. Dill, good!”
Seeing this, Peeta shoots a pleading glance at Olive, for he doesn’t want Dill going into a full-blown tantrum.
Olive takes the hint, fortunately. “Yes, Dill good,” she says, patting his head. Peeta breathes a sigh of relief when Dill seems calmed by his sister’s words and her hand on his head, which is now running through his curls.
Katniss silently snickers. Peeta has to be close to losing it. He loves their babies so much, yet the kitchen is sacred ground for him. To him, it must be as if they’re desecrating a temple.
She really should help. But no, Peeta is perfectly capable of handling their two rugrats. Also, the wicked side of her kind of wants to see how this turns out…
To his relief, Katniss has left the diaper bag on the back counter, and Peeta goes for it, returning with some wet wipes. He brushes the flour off Dill’s shirt and pants‒he’ll clean that up after‒and dabs his clothes with a wet wipe. But the toddler doesn’t like this particular kind of attention and lets his father know through a series of choking sobs while Peeta and Olive try to soothe him.
“Almost done, son,” Peeta promises. He brushes flour out of Dill’s curls and kisses his forehead. Softly sighing, Peeta wipes off Dill’s face as his son blinks up at him with large, gray eyes. “You’re definitely going to need a bath and a change of clothes later, but this will have to do for now.”
Peeta wipes off Dill’s tiny hands.
“All clean now, son.” Peeta leans in. “Let’s keep it that way.” He’s trying to be stern but clearly losing the battle. It’s all over when Dill grabs Peeta’s face with his chubby hands and smooches his chin. Peeta’s expression softens to the consistency of mush. No matter what their babies do, they have Daddy wrapped around their little fingers.
Once he’s done cleaning Dill, Peeta goes for the broom. He’ll need to sweep up the flour and probably mop, flour having that clingy consistency it does, not to mention the ability to get into every tiny crevice and remain there until the end of time. Sure, flour has been spilled down at the bakery before; his family even had a saying, which he uses with his new employees (none of whom are toddlers)‒Don’t cry over spilled flour.
So, why does he feel like crying now?
“Daddy,” the sound of Olive’s voice rings out over his thoughts.
“Yes, baby?”
“I was wondering…can you sing? Like Mommy?”
“Not well, sweetheart.” He chuckles. “And definitely not like Mommy. No one sings like Mommy,” he says proudly.
From behind the wall, Katniss smiles, her heart thumping a teeny bit faster. Her Peeta, how does he still do this to her? Always so sweet, he still manages to catch her off guard with the things he says.
She continues to observe.
Several minutes later, Peeta’s finished sweeping and mopping the small area. He secures Dill and washes his hands; then he and Olive are back at the mixture. Olive’s singing at the top of her lungs now, a traditional holiday folk song from their district. She does have quite a nice voice, despite her pitch being up and down. She’s a jubilant singer, though, and Katniss has been singing to her all her life.
Peeta, on the other hand, doesn’t sing often. But when Olive begs him to join in, he does.
The two start singing the chorus of the song, and Katniss has to cover her mouth to keep from snorting at Peeta’s efforts to keep pace with Olive, who’s running with a high note, slightly out of key, yet still pretty.
They return to the baking, all seemingly going according to plan until Olive knocks about ⅓ of the bottle of cinnamon into the mixing bowl. Peeta notices, but he doesn’t correct her. He doesn’t want to risk hurting her feelings, Katniss assumes, but is he really going to bake that batch and let them eat it?
He pre-heats the stove and starts scooping balls of dough onto the cookie sheet, all the while trying to prevent Olive from eating it. He gives in when she pouts and offers her a tiny taste of it, but that only seems to make her more voracious. She doesn’t seem to mind the added cinnamon. He distracts her by letting her handle the cookie scoop. She struggles with it, shaking it rather vigorously to get the dough out until Peeta shows her how a simple click releases the dough.
She’s a master at it after that. However, the dough balls aren’t exactly distributed evenly on the cookie sheet, and some are even stuck together. Surely, Peeta will handle it by the time he gets them to the oven.
Then again, maybe he’ll accidentally dump the whole batch in the garbage along the way? One can only hope.
When all is scooped out, Peeta carries the tray of dough balls over to the oven. He’s not sure what to do; he can’t in good conscience stick these abominations in the oven, knowing how they’re bound to turn out. It’s like a baking sin, right up there with burning that bread many years ago. Although, look how that turned out for him in the end…
Worried as he is that the oven might explode or spew the ruined dough balls from its bowels in protest, Peeta can’t resist Olive’s baby blues or that small, tilted smile that’s so much like her mother’s.
Oh well. What will it hurt to make a bad batch? Maybe he can switch them out and throw the bad ones to Haymitch’s geese.
Peeta dons oven mitts and slides the tray in.
Olive doesn’t give him any problems with trying to touch the stove; he warned her long ago about that. Rather than making up a story to scare her, he simply told her the truth‒that it was very hot and would hurt badly if she touched it and if severe enough, it could leave permanent marks on her skin.
“Like the ones on you and Mommy’s skin?” Olive had innocently asked.
“Exactly,” he’d said. Although not exactly, it was a good lesson. It was enough to ward Olive off from the stove.
Katniss allows them to finish, and as Peeta’s pulling out the tray, she enters.
“Oh hey,” Peeta greets with a smile. “Didn’t hear you come in. Did you just get home?”
“You could say that.” She smirks at him, and the corner of his lip tilts in a way that suggests he knows she’s been there the whole time. Or, maybe he’s simply figured it out, since she can’t hide anything from him to save her life.
“Welcome back,” he says, pressing a kiss to her lips. She smiles.
“Mama, we made cookies!” exclaims Olive, hugging Katniss tightly around the legs.
“I see that,” says Katniss.
“Yeah, Olive here is quite the little baker. I might have to start training her down at the bakery.”
Olive beams.
“Daddy, Daddy, can we give one to Mama now? Are they cool yet?!”
“Let’s wait a few more minutes,” suggests Peeta. And Katniss takes their daughter aside to show her what she got in the woods.
Several minutes later, Peeta is handing a cookie to their daughter and motioning for her to offer it to Katniss.
“Mama, take a bite!” Olive extends the perfectly golden-browned cookie.
Katniss has a brief moment of panic, recalling what she’d witnessed. But her daughter and husband made these cookies for her with love, so how can she deny them? Peeta’s certainly going to hear about this later, though…
She observes the offered cookie a moment.
It looks good…
How bad can it be? Well…
Katniss takes the cookie, raising it to her mouth and preparing herself for what is sure to be the worst thing she’s ever tasted (and she’s tasted a lot of bad things). She takes a bite of the cookie.
As soon as she bites into it, a rush of sweetness and spice in the perfect combination hits her taste buds, and they’re singing. Rather than the worst, it’s one of the best things she’s ever tasted, rivaling hot chocolate and Peeta’s cheese buns, although with an entirely different flavor.
Huh.
Does love really make a thing look and taste better? Maybe it’s true what they say about children being infallible to their parents.
Or maybe, more likely…
She eyes Peeta suspiciously, confronting him only after the children have gone off to play.
Peeta faces Katniss, gripping the counter behind him, a sly grin painting his lips.
Her own lips upturn slightly. “The cookie…you switched it, didn’t you?”
He nods.
“I’m grateful, Peeta, but how could you betray your daughter like that?”
“Well, I love her, but I also love you. We protect each other, right?" They exchange a smile. "How could I let the pregnant mother of my children and child-to-be put something our daughter made into her mouth?” He runs a gentle hand across her slightly protruding belly and bends down to place a kiss on it.
Katniss gives a short laugh. “Well, you were supposed to be supervising them, Peeta. I thought a master such as yourself could handle a couple of amateur bakers.”
“I may be a master, but I was up against far more than amateur bakers. Honestly, the two of them can be impossible sometimes. Just like their mother.”
Katniss gives him a wry smirk.
Peeta places his hands on her shoulders and squeezes gently. “And you? How could you stand by and watch the chaos without a word?” He’s not angry, only teasing her.
“You knew the whole time?” She’s surprised, actually.
“No, but I figured it out when you came in.”
Katniss sighs. This man she’s married to…
Peeta winks at her, and Katniss scowls, though she can’t hold it.
“I’m surprised you were able to pull off the switch without my noticing. You’ve gotten much stealthier.”
Peeta shrugs. “Well, when you live with a great huntress for years, you’re bound to pick up a trick or two.”
They kiss, and Peeta entwines their hands. And they set out to check on their children, together.