child's play // meghan

AFTER YEARS OF IRREGULAR mealtimes, eating whenever I could between night jobs, or skipping altogether to focus my mind that little bit more, the routineness and balance of food in the Capitol makes me feel more ill than I’m sure I’d feel if I didn’t eat at all. I’ve been introduced to all sorts of new flavours and combinations in my time here, but everything I try seems to reflect the mannerism of the Capitol itself – too rich and not nearly sensible enough, and caked with so much artificial colouring that although the bad taste is disguised, it’s definitely not improved. I’m no food critic, but I’ve always been suspicious of things I can’t easily recognise. I prefer eating in the dining hall than in my own room, despite the banquet table more suited for the entire Gamemaking committee than two weedy kids, a couple of old victors and a squadron of chattery stylists. It feels more like home – the foods served in big shining vats with ladels or serving forks, not on dainty, miniature china crockery that’s as fragile as bird bones – and as well-suited for the purpose of holding a large meal, too. I know that the designers of these rooms tried to play up the whole ‘young children’ angle for some housing magazine or other – the stylists (and the only ones who actually appreciate any of it) squeal about it every time they enter.

The dining room is not only plainer, both in design and in recipes, but also gives much more scope for conversation, too. It’s easy to go and sit opposite a new person, (as easy as it is for the introverted Tributes to sit alone), and chatter flows easily when there’s whole lives of different experiences to compare. I prefer to talk about the present than the past, though. Who I was doesn’t matter, it’s who I will be that does.

With a plate lightly topped with the blandest things I could find – beef in some sweet, herby sauce with venom green vegetables on the side – I go to sit down at an empty table. Soon enough, someone will come to me, that’s inevitable. The vegetables give off a masked odour of being overcooked, and it’s completely unpleasant. Before I can stop myself, regulating my instincts to appeal to the other tributes, I pick one up in my fist and smell it deeply. It’s an impulse, as I used to go with nibbled bread or old droppings. You can tell a lot by the way something smells, but all I can deduce here is that too much time has gone into making this meal, and not enough care.

I can’t even begin to compare this nostalgically to my perfectly cooked meals at home, whatever the time of day or the depth of my appetite, before I notice a tribute begin to walk over to me. She’s got a slightly haughty look to her, but in an almost pitiful way. Humouring her is bound to help me make it further in the Games, and I know the effect will be clear for my family in the District. Returning the now pulverised vegetable to my plate, I follow her with my eyes until she sits down opposite me. Then, I smile, and hold out my non-food covered hand for her to shake. “I’m Eden,” goes my introduction, “where are you from?” It’s a mixture of courtesy and genuine interest, but I know it’s a good start, whatever direction our interaction takes.