I add a pinch of salt to the little mountain of flour, and a spoon of olive oil, while she pours in the yeast.
We stand side by side every Friday afternoon, at the marble
kitchen counter, mirroring each other’s hand movements, stretching and kneading,
stretching and kneading
Integrating ingredients, the dough compliant to our oily
finger tips, supple in our palms, the soft feminine roundness of it
The heat from the oven, the warm glow through the small window.
She tells me funny little stories about school, I ask her whether she wants Italian
herbs added to the tomato sauce
We pepper our culinary masterpiece with grated mozzarella
Wait hungrily for the pale crust to grow golden and crisp
Our mother daughter ritual
A sense of satisfaction as the last slice devoured
The cutting marks etched on the pizza pan growing more pronounced.
