miércoles, 26 de febrero de 2014



I've never really seen Boggs angry before. Not when I've disobeyed his orders or puked on him, not even
when Gale broke his nose. But he's angry when he returns from his phone call with the president. The first thing
he does is instruct Soldier Jackson, his second in command, to set up a two-person, round-the-clock guard on
Peeta. Then he takes me on a walk, weaving through the sprawling tent encampment until our squad is far
behind us.
"He'll try and kill me anyway," I say. "Especially here. Where there are so many bad memories to set him
"I'll keep him contained, Katniss," says Boggs.
"Why does Coin want me dead now?" I ask.
"She denies she does," he answers.
"But we know it's true," I say. "And you must at least have a theory."
Boggs gives me a long, hard look before he answers. "Here's as much as I know. The president doesn't
like you. She never did. It was Peeta she wanted rescued from the arena, but no one else agreed. It made
matters worse when you forced her to give the other victors immunity. But even that could be overlooked in view
of how well you've performed."
"Then what is it?" I insist.
"Sometime in the near future, this war will be resolved. A new leader will be chosen," says Boggs.
I roll my eyes. "Boggs, no one thinks I'm going to be the leader."
"No. They don't," he agrees. "But you'll throw support to someone. Would it be President Coin? Or
someone else?"
"I don't know. I've never thought about it," I say.

domingo, 23 de febrero de 2014


The implications of what Gale is suggesting settle quietly around the room. You can see the reaction
playing out on people's faces. The expressions range from pleasure to distress, from sorrow to satisfaction.
"The majority of the workers are citizens from Two," says Beetee neutrally.
"So what?" says Gale. "We'll never be able to trust them again."
"They should at least have a chance to surrender," says Lyme.
"Well, that's a luxury we weren't given when they fire-bombed Twelve, but you're all so much cozier with the
Capitol here," says Gale. By the look on Lyme's face, I think she might shoot him, or at least take a swing. She'd
probably have the upper hand, too, with all her training. But her anger only seems to infuriate him and he yells,
"We watched children burn to death and there was nothing we could do!"
I have to close my eyes a minute, as the image rips through me. It has the desired effect. I want everyone in
that mountain dead. Am about to say so. But then...I'm also a girl from District 12. Not President Snow. I can't
help it. I can't condemn someone to the death he's suggesting. "Gale," I say, taking his arm and trying to speak in
a reasonable tone. "The Nut's an old mine. It'd be like causing a massive coal mining accident." Surely the
words are enough to make anyone from 12 think twice about the plan.
"But not so quick as the one that killed our fathers," he retorts. "Is that everyone's problem? That our
enemies might have a few hours to reflect on the fact that they're dying, instead of just being blown to bits?"
Back in the old days, when we were nothing more than a couple of kids hunting outside of 12, Gale said
things like this and worse. But then they were just words. Here, put into practice, they become deeds that can
never be reversed.
"You don't know how those District Two people ended up in the Nut," I say. "They may have been coerced.
They may be held against their will. Some are our own spies. Will you kill them, too?"
"I would sacrifice a few, yes, to take out the rest of them," he replies. "And if I were a spy in there, I'd say,
'Bring on the avalanches!'"

sábado, 22 de febrero de 2014



The scream begins in my lower back and works its way up through my body only to jam in my throat. I am
Avox mute, choking on my grief. Even if I could release the muscles in my neck, let the sound tear into space,
would anyone notice it? The room's in an uproar. Questions and demands ring out as they try to decipher
Peeta's words. "And you...in Thirteen...dead by morning!" Yet no one is asking about the messenger whose
blood has been replaced by static.
A voice calls the others to attention. "Shut up!" Every pair of eyes falls on Haymitch. "It's not some big
mystery! The boy's telling us we're about to be attacked. Here. In Thirteen."
"How would he have that information?"
"Why should we trust him?"
"How do you know?"
Haymitch gives a growl of frustration. "They're beating him bloody while we speak. What more do you
need? Katniss, help me out here!"
I have to give myself a shake to free my words. "Haymitch's right. I don't know where Peeta got the
information. Or if it's true. But he believes it is. And they're--" I can't say aloud what Snow's doing to him.
"You don't know him," Haymitch says to Coin. "We do. Get your people ready."
The president doesn't seem alarmed, only somewhat perplexed, by this turn in events. She mulls over the
words, tapping one finger lightly on the rim of the control board in front of her. When she speaks, she addresses
Haymitch in an even voice. "Of course, we have prepared for such a scenario. Although we have decades of
support for the assumption that further direct attacks on Thirteen would be counterproductive to the Capitol's
cause. Nuclear missiles would release radiation into the atmosphere, with incalculable environmental results.
Even routine bombing could badly damage our military compound, which we know they hope to regain. And, of
course, they invite a counterstrike. It is conceivable that, given our current alliance with the rebels, those would be viewed as acceptable risks."

viernes, 21 de febrero de 2014


The shock of hearing Haymitch's voice yesterday, of learning that he was not only functional but had some
measure of control over my life again, enraged me. I left the studio directly and refused to acknowledge his
comments from the booth today. Even so, I knew immediately he was right about my performance.
It took the whole of this morning for him to convince the others of my limitations. That I can't pull it off. I can't
stand in a television studio wearing a costume and makeup in a cloud of fake smoke and rally the districts to
victory. It's amazing, really, how long I have survived the cameras. The credit for that, of course, goes to Peeta.
Alone, I can't be the Mockingjay.
We gather around the huge table in Command. Coin and her people. Plutarch, Fulvia, and my prep team. A
group from 12 that includes Haymitch and Gale, but also a few others I can't explain, like Leevy and Greasy Sae.
At the last minute, Finnick wheels Beetee in, accompanied by Dalton, the cattle expert from 10. I suppose that
Coin has assembled this strange assortment of people as witnesses to my failure.
However, it's Haymitch who welcomes everyone, and by his words I understand that they have come at his
personal invitation. This is the first time we've been in a room together since I clawed him. I avoid looking at him
directly, but I catch a glimpse of his reflection in one of the shiny control consoles along the wall. He looks slightly
yellow and has lost a lot of weight, giving him a shrunken appearance. For a second, I'm afraid he's dying. I have
to remind myself that I don't care.
The first thing Haymitch does is to show the footage we've just shot. I seem to have reached some new low
under Plutarch and Fulvia's guidance. Both my voice and body have a jerky, disjointed quality, like a puppet
being manipulated by unseen forces.
"All right," Haymitch says when it's over. "Would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning the
war?" No one does. "That saves time. So, let's all be quiet for a minute. I want everyone to think of one incident
where Katniss Everdeen genuinely moved you. Not where you were jealous of her hairstyle, or her dress went up
in flames or she made a halfway decent shot with an arrow. Not where Peeta was making you like her. I want to
hear one moment where she made you feel something real."

jueves, 20 de febrero de 2014


   I stare down at my shoes, watching as a fine layer of ash settles on the worn leather. This is here the bed I shared with my sister, Prim, stood. Over there was the kitchen table. The bricks of the chimney, which collapsed in a charred heap, provide a point of reference for the rest of the house. How else could I orient myself in this sea of gray?
   Almost nothing remains of District 12. A month ago, the Capitol's firebombs obliterated the poor coal miners' houses in the Seam, the shops in the town, even the Justice Building. The only area that escaped incineration was the Victor's Village. I don't know why exactly. Perhaps so anyone forced to come here on Capitol business would have somewhere decent to stay. The odd reporter. A committee assessing the condition of the coal mines. A squad of Peacekeepers checking for returning refugees.
   But no one is returning except me. And that's only for a brief visit. The authorities in District 13 were against my coming back. They viewed it as a costly and pointless venture, given that at least a dozen invisible hovercraft are circling overhead for my protection and there's no intelligence to be gained. I had to see it, though. So much so that I made it a condition of my cooperating with any of their plans.
   Finally, Plutarch Heavensbee, the Head Gamemaker who had organized the rebels in the Capitol, threw up his hands. "Let her go. Better to waste a day than another month. Maybe a little tour of Twelve is just what she needs to convince her we're on the same side."
   The same side. A pain stabs my left temple and I press my hand against it. Right on the spot where Johanna Mason hit me with the coil of wire. The memories swirl as I try to sort out what is true and what is false.
   What series of events led me to be standing in the ruins of my city? This is hard because the effects of the concussion she gave me haven't completely subsided and my thoughts still have a tendency to jumble together.
   Also, the drugs they use to control my pain and mood sometimes make me see things. I guess. I'm still not entirely convinced that I was hallucinating the night the floor of my hospital room transformed into a carpet of writhing snakes.

sábado, 15 de febrero de 2014


YA SÉ QUE YA PASÓ SAN VALENTÍN... Pero más vale tarde que nunca, y no hay que esperar una fecha especial para demostrar nuestro amor a nuestros amores. 
 Además me vino tarde la inspiración... justo cuando estaba pensando que iba a cocinar para cenar la ví a Pía jugando con masas y me acordé de los cortantes. Algunos años atrás le hice unas galletitas corazonas a mi maridito y bueno... no pude con mi genio. Ésto es lo que salió:
Sí, soy una tierna.

Para hacerlas obviamente vas a necesitar papas, una cuchilla y un cortante de galletitas PLÁSTICO porque vas a tener que hacer un poco de fuerza y los cortantes metálicos son traicioneros.

Yo tenía papas chicas pero cuanto más grandes menos desperdicio van a generar. Cortá la papa de modo que te queden rodajas más grandes que el cortante, del ancho que quieras, pero no más gruesas que el cortante. Si tenés papas muy grandes vas a poder sacar varias piezas de cada rodaja.

Si sólo tenes papas chicas tratá de acomodar el cortante sobre la rodaja tratando de llenar la forma lo más posible.

Dejá los "desperdicios" apartados, tratá de cortarlos del mismo tamaño, los podés usar para freir y hacer mini papas fritas o guardarlos para después hacer puré. (Si vas a freir todo hacelo por separado, yaq que por diferencia de tamaños o te quedan crudas las formas o te quedan quemados los desperdicios).

Freí/ horneá/ herví/ microondeá / asá/ lo que más te guste pero no te olvides de cocinarlas :P
 (TIP: Si las vas a hervir, cuando metas las papas al agua echale un chorrito chiquito de vinagre para que no se te hagan puré)

Sal, alguna hierbita y... A comeree!
Si comés sano con una ensaladita, si no para acompañar cualquier comida. Digo, a quien no le gustan unas buenas papas fritas?