Work Text:
The golden light of the sunrise illuminates the kitchen. I rub sleep from my eyes as I grab the flour, sugar, and cinnamon for my best-selling cinnamon cookies from the pantry. While I am tying my apron on, my daughter, Willow, comes trudging down the stairs. She is wearing a pink nightgown, and she has an extreme case of bedhead.
“Daddy?” she yawns. “Where’s Mommy?”
“She went hunting. She’ll be back later,” I say. “Do you want to help me make some cookies?” At the mention of cookies, her eyes light up.
“Yes!” she shouts enthusiastically. “What do I do first?”
“Go grab an egg from the fridge.” I turn around to start measuring the dry ingredients. Just as I get the bag of flour open I hear a crack. Willow is standing there with wide eyes, looking like she just got caught committing a crime. I smile and say, “Its fine. Just get another one.”
This time she slowly walks over to the counter, not once taking her eyes off that egg. She carefully places it on the counter and whoops in triumph when she has successfully gotten it over here without breaking it.
“Alright, now can you put a half teaspoon of salt in the bowl?” I ask.
“Sure thing, Daddy,” she says as looks for the measuring spoon in the utensil drawer. While she does that, I put some butter, sugar, and cinnamon in a bowl. At the last second, I see her about to put a large amount of salt in the bowl.
“Willow, wait,” I say as I examine the spoon in her hand. “This is half a tablespoon.”
“Oops,” she says.
“It’s okay, baby,” I reassure her. “Everybody makes mistakes.” I laugh a little. “You get your cooking skills from your mother.” I put the right amount of salt in then lift her up onto the counter. “Do you want to put the flour in while I mix?”
“Can I mix it, Daddy? Please,” she begs. I’m a little hesitant after the incidents with the egg and the salt, but I give in anyway.
“Only if you’re super careful not to make a mess,” I say.
“I will be. I promise,” she says. She takes the hand mixer, and I take the bowl of flour. I dump half of the flour in the bowl, and Willow starts mixing. I let out a sigh of relief when she manages not to coat the kitchen in a layer of flour.
I’m not as lucky the second time. After I pour the last half of the flour in, she accidentally flips the switch to high, causing flour and butter and sugar to go everywhere. It’s all over the place, but most of it is covering us.
We both look at each other, eyes wide. For a moment she says nothing. Then she says, “Mama is going to be so mad at us.”
“Well then, let’s hurry and clean this up before she gets home,” I say.
As if on cue, Katniss walks in. Willow and I are quiet, waiting for her to turn around and see the mess we’ve made. Katniss lays her bow down and slings her game bag off her shoulder. She hangs her hunting jacket on the coat rack then turns around.
“Oh my god,” she says, looking at the mess that is the kitchen. “What’s going on here?”
“Um,” I say. “We were making cookies and… um…”
Willow points a finger at me and blurts out, “Daddy did it.”
Katniss bursts out laughing. “Then I guess Daddy has some cleaning up to do. Come on, baby. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”
“What? Don’t blame it all on me,” I say, jokingly, as Willow and Katniss head to the bathroom.
“Sorry, Daddy,” Willow yells from down the hall.
I laugh and think, “She is something else”. I turn back to the kitchen and begin to survey the scene; the walls are coated in a thick layer of flour and butter, as is the floor and some of the ceiling, and the egg that Willow dropped earlier is still on the floor. I sigh and get a mop because I have a lot of cleaning up to do.