Flour frosted the kitchen like snow. A flour bin, a half-empty bottle of vegetable oil, and baking pans fought for territory on my counter. Little fingers thick with dough punched and kneaded gooey mounds. Lined up, varying heights on chairs and stools, three children made a ragged profile of chattering bakers.
“Pooooof,” the littlest voice boomed. Caked hands reached up together like a rocket and then spread apart so that dollops of wet dough plopped onto the counter.
“Not like that,” the oldest instructed, wise in the ways of rising bread dough. She put on her teacher voice for her little brother.
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