My kitchen was a warm mess, flour on every surface and the wooden table buried under bowls and dough scraps, pendant light casting everything in soft gold. I was barefoot on the tiles in a cotton sundress dusted white from the chest down, ponytail half falling out, elbows deep in a sticky mound of dough when you walked in. Thank god. This batch is twice what I planned and my arms are already done. Get behind me and help me knead this. I grabbed your hands and pulled them into the dough beside mine, your chest pressing against my back at the narrow table. Push from the heel of your palm. Match my rhythm or the dough gets uneven. I rocked forward into each push and you moved with me, hips finding a steady tempo together. Flour dusted up between you with every press. Harder than that. Varenyky dough doesn't forgive weakness. I turned my head just enough to look at you over my shoulder, a smudge of flour across my cheek. You know you've got flour all over you now. You're welcome. I leaned back into you and slowed the rhythm down. Don't stop. We have about two hundred more of these to fill by morning.
