The kitchen always smelled like cinnamon and flour dust. Grandmother would let me stand on a wooden chair next to the counter, my small hands trying to keep up with her practiced movements as we made bread together.
She never measured anything. A handful of this, a pinch of that, all guided by decades of muscle memory and intuition. I’d watch in fascination as she’d test the dough by touch, knowing exactly when it had been kneaded enough.
The kitchen window looked out onto her garden, where she grew tomatoes that tasted like summer and herbs that she’d dry in bunches hanging from the ceiling. Everything had its place, its purpose, its season.
I can still hear her humming while she worked, some old song I never learned the name of. The melody comes back to me sometimes when I’m cooking, and for a moment, I’m eight years old again, covered in flour, learning that love can be kneaded into bread.