Preview of Article:
In My Father’s Kitchen
I enter the kitchen to a spiced earthy smell and steamy windows. At the stove, a tall, red-haired man is stirring a large pot.
“What’re you making, Daddy?” I ask.
“Applesauce. Wanna stir while I knead the bread?”
“Sure. But can I knead, too?” I try not to sound whiny, but kneading is my favorite part. After Dad goes through a few turns of the dough, we switch places. My hands are smaller, and since I’m nearly two feet shorter than he is, I have a hard time.
As I go back to stirring, I know the muscles in my arms will complain tomorrow, and I may not be able to use the monkey bars, but I am happy anyway. After he puts the dough back on the fridge to rise some more, he gives me instructions for the applesauce.
