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One of the first things Shikadai noticed about Suna was that it smelled different.
His earliest memories of his time there were that the air was richer and held smells that Konoha did not. Konoha was freshly fallen rain and newly unfolding leaves, but beneath Suna’s warmth and sand lay amazing things that tickled his nose and set deep into his thoughts.
It took a few years for his brain and memories to catch up enough for him to remember what it was that made Suna’s air so different. It was the spices; the way his uncle Kankuro cooked, and the myriad of native dishes Suna had to offer. It was bay leaves and thyme, pepper and turmeric, fresh peeled garlic and slowly smoking meats.
Suna gave ‘home’ a new meaning; a wholesome, earthy, aromatic meaning.
One of Shikadai’s brightest, clearest Suna memories was from when he was about four years old, on his usual family trip to visit his uncles for a few weeks.
He woke up cuddled into his father’s chest, the day already beginning to warm. Shikadai blinked his eyes open, scrunching up his face in displeasure. Sleeping was better. Being awake was a drag, and he wanted to drift off again.
He buried himself determinedly into Shikamaru’s chest, feeling an irritating point of pressure across his forehead from a wrinkle of fabric in his father’s shirt. Shikadai stifled a yawn, and stubbornly closed his eyes. He remembered making his way into his parents’ room when the moon was high and the night air held an icy chill. He had been unsettled at sleeping somewhere new, wanted comfort, wanted sympathy and coddling, and had whispered into his mother’s ear that he couldn’t sleep and could he lie with her for just a little while?
Shikadai didn’t remember much else after that. He had always been good at falling asleep. He assumed Temari had lifted him into the bed between them, and he had probably fallen asleep almost immediately after that.
Now, he sniffed at the air. It was tangy and tantalizing, rising over the faint scent of sweat from where he was plastered to Shikamaru. Shikadai drew his head back slightly, with long, tired blinks. He turned his face, catching a glimpse of sunny sky out the window and his mother’s nightgown hung off the closet handle.
He sniffed again.
There was something earthy and inviting about the air this morning, and curiosity prompted him to get out of bed. Shikamaru’s arm withdrew from him, although Shikamaru remained with his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling steadily.
Shikadai climbed to the floor, rubbing at his eyes with tiny clenched fists, before stumbling towards the door. It was very slightly ajar, and he carefully pulled it closed behind him before taking deliberate, if dozy, steps towards the amazing smells.
They came from the kitchen, and Shikadai paused in the doorway, head up, taking in deep, curious breaths. It smelled warm, although he didn’t think people could smell temperature.
“Good morning, little one,” Temari’s voice cut through his musing. She sounded soft and content, a tone Shikadai was beginning to recognize more often in Suna.
Still blinking, still sleepy, he squinted across the kitchen at her. She was standing by the stove, her back to him, her golden hair loose down to her shoulders and soaked in sunlight. She looked tall and strong, and Shikadai wondered a bit at why she always seemed different in Suna.
He toddled across the floor to her, arms already stretched up above his head in a silent plea to be lifted and held. He knew he was getting too big for this, too big to be carried all the time, but Suna wasn’t quite home yet and Boruto wasn’t there to tease him about being a baby. He let out a yawn when he tried to ask for ‘up’, but Temari didn’t need to hear his request to understand him.
He was scooped up, and he let out a giggle, and dug his knees around her hip, one hand clutching into the back of her dress. He rubbed his face against her shoulder, trying to banish the last dregs of sleep.
“How are you this morning?” Temari asked, sounding wideawake.
Shikadai let out a whiny, throaty noise, still face down on her shoulder. He felt her hand run through his fuzzy hair, cradling the back of his head for a moment. He pressed a smile into her clothes, squirming a bit in her hold because moments like these made him feel overwhelmingly happy.
It took some effort to open his eyes again, and lift his head, and finally see what she was doing.
There was a small pan on the stove, and Shikadai could see a sprinkling of little seeds lightly toasting inside it.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Cumin,” she replied. “I need to grind them, so they have to be roasted first.” She indicated to the counter, where there were several other small piles of seeds cooling on paper towels, as well as a tiny handful of red, dried peppers. “That’s star anise, black peppercorns, cardamon, and paprika peppers.”
Shikadai frowned. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you grinding them up?”
“These little things are the reason everything here tastes so good,” Temari explained, using one hand to shake the pan lightly so the cumin didn’t burn. “When we grind them, you’ll be able to smell them. Then you’ll recognize them.”
Shikadai stared at the little piles of colour. They were varied, and the smell reminded him of the stew Kankuro had made for dinner the previous night. He rubbed at his eyes again, slowly waking up, as Temari carefully poured the cumin seeds onto an open piece of paper towel.
“Do you have more?” Shikadai asked.
“One more,” Temari confirmed. “Just the cloves left.”
Shikadai watched studiously as the cloves were toasted, leaning forwards to sniff delicately at the air. “Smells like the rice you made at Dad’s birthday.”
“Good memory,” Temari praised. “And you’re right. I did use cloves in the recipe for that rice.”
Shikadai nodded to himself, pleased at remembering. He yawned once more, and asked absently, “How do you grind them?”
“With that,” Temari indicated to the mortar and pestle on the counter, close to the wall. It was heavy and black. Shikadai had noticed it on the counter at each visit, but it had never interested him. He was more interested in exploring Suna and the desert than querying kitchen appliances.
Now, with interest, he watched as Temari turned the stove off and pulled the mortar close. She lifted up the towel of peppercorns and poured them in. Shikadai squirmed in her arms, trying to see better. When Temari took the pestle in her free hand and began the rhythmic, repetitive grinding motions he peered close.
“Can I try?” he asked, after a moment of gentle scraping sounds. He reached his hands towards Temari’s hand.
Temari set him down on the counter, making sure he was sitting as far back from the edge as possible. She moved the mortar to between his knees, and he obligingly closed his hands around it and peered inside. The seeds were partially crushed, sharply present in his nose as he bent over the bowl. He sat up abruptly as the powder tickled his nose, screwing up his face in an effort not to sneeze.
When the danger passed, he looked down with more caution. Temari showed him how to close his hands around the pestle. It was warm from her grip, and he sat in awed silence as she moved his arms, showing him the angle and pressure needed. It felt strange, and unnatural, but he was determined to follow through and help.
“Keep going,” Temari encouraged gently, letting his hands go. Without her help, the pestle seemed to stick in place, heavier than he expected and hard to manipulate without practice and without finesse. The tip of Shikadai’s tongue poked from the side of his mouth in concentration, and he continued doggedly with his task.
With every scrape around the mortar, with each new spice that Temari encouraged him to grind next, the memories of meals past grew in his mind. There was the nose-tickling spiciness of Kankuro’s pickled fish that Shikadai remembered burned his tongue. There was the earthiness of Shikamaru’s favourite fried rice, the warmth of the cinnamon and clove tea that Temari favoured all winter.
Every seed, every spice, every turn of the pestle brought back a thought long buried.
Grinding spices by hand, putting together the potential for so many flavours and so many pleasures, meant home and warmth and comfort. Seeing the colours emerge as he worked at them was different and enticing. The cumin became the bold red rocks outside the village gates. Turmeric was the golden sun that defined the very desert. Black peppercorns were the night sky, dotted with dusty stars. The desert was found within everything that Temari and Kankuro made in Suna, every flavour of the village here at Shikadai’s fingertips and synonymous with his mother and her village.
It was familiar, comforting. For the first time, Suna felt like home just as much as Konoha did.
“Do you want to help me make breakfast?” Temari asked, breaking Shikadai out of his musings.
“With these?” Shikadai replied, reaching his hands towards the glass jars of spices. Temari let his tiny fingers close around the paprika, and he looked up at her hopefully.
“Yes,” she said, and he was struck by how golden she looked, like the desert sun and the endless dunes and the turmeric that stained his fingertips.
He glanced down at the paprika, then at his mother once more with a wide grin.
For some reason, that memory of grinding spices in Suna long, long ago, was at the forefront of Shikadai’s mind when he woke. He glanced at the clock beside his bed, letting out a sigh. Too early to be up, but too late to justify going to sleep again. He knew by the time he drifted off again, it would be getting close to time to meet Inojin and Chocho for missions.
He got up with another needlessly long sigh, taking his time to stretch.
After a moment of sitting on his bed, he wandered to the kitchen to make tea and begin convincing his brain to wake up.
There was a brown paper bag sitting on the kitchen counter, and Shikadai peered inside curiously. There were additional, smaller bags inside. Some were transparent, and Shikadai recognized the whole seeds and spices from Suna. Temari had obviously returned home late last night, after several weeks away, and had not bothered to pack everything away.
Shikadai unpacked some of the bag while he waited for water to boil, and set a few of the spices on the counter with a smile. He opened a bag of cumin seeds, and inhaled deeply. It was like the desert had come home with Temari.
Shikadai set the bag down, and rummaged around for a pan.
As he watched the seeds toast, occasionally jumping about in the pan, he almost felt like he was four years old again. He could remember the golden morning sunshine in Temari’s hair, and the feel of her clothes against his knees as he held tight to her hip. That closeness had changed now, with him outgrowing such acts of affection, but Temari had replaced holding him with things like ruffling his hair, a sideways hug, a surprise kiss on the cheek that he constantly objected to out of a misplaced adolescent need to preserve his ego.
He had already toasted and begun grinding three spices before he became aware of Temari standing in the doorway watching him. He glanced over his shoulder at her, pausing with the mortar and pestle.
“Hey,” he said, a little awkwardly, unsure of how long she had been there while he methodically and, now well-practiced, ground down the toasted peppercorns.
“Good morning, little one,” she returned, with a broad smile, golden hair still loose. “What are you doing?”
Shikadai shrugged, and turned his gaze down again. He continued grinding the seeds, the only sound that gentle scrape of stone.
“Helping, I guess,” he replied eventually, once the peppercorns were a fine powder and he was ready to decant them into their container. The smell reminded him of the marinade Temari liked to use on fish and meat before grilling. “So you don’t have to do all this on your own.”
While it was no longer hard to use the tool, it was slow. It was time consuming. And Temari had better things to do than spend an hour preparing spices. It felt . . . good, Shikadai supposed, to be able to ease her load slightly.
“Has Kankuro taught you to make his secret stew yet?” Temari asked, coming to lean against the counter. She crossed her arms lightly, hands on the opposite elbows, watching him close.
“No,” Shikadai shook his head, wiping out the mortar and pouring in the cooled cumin seeds. “He said he would do it soon, though. Maybe next time I visit. Shinki is going to learn at the same time, too.”
He kept his head down, pounding at the cumin, trying to ignore the way Temari watched him.
“Do you want to help me make breakfast?” she asked, and he raised his head at the question.
It took him a moment to answer, too caught up in the past and the task at hand.
“Sure,” he managed, after an awkward silence. “Let me just . . . finish this . . .”
The cumin was nearly done, reddish-brown, and he absently ground at it a while longer as Temari made them both tea. He shook the cumin out of the mortar into a glass jar, giving Temari a grateful smile as she set a mug of cinnamon tea down near him. The steam tickled his nose, spicy and sharp, smelling like mornings in the desert.
Maybe, Shikadai thought, home was less about places and more about people.
“Thanks,” he said, adding as an afterthought, “I’m glad you’re home again.”
She looked at the other spices he had finished, sitting neatly on the counter, a muted rainbow. She plucked the paprika from the group. “I’m glad to be home again.”