I would climb up the three steps of the little foot ladder, bought especially for me to reach counter height. I had to be in the action of Thursday's baking. I simply could not miss the scenery because of a counter that was too high for my little hands to reach.  I would lean into her apron, balance hard as her soft waist supported my childish movements.

Sifting fascinated me. I found it hard. The fine bones in my wrists would tire after a few shakes of flour. I would let the sieve slide and rest against the mixing bowl. Pick it up again, shake, rest. I would do this until each lump had made its way through the mesh. The stubborn clots of flour that had over time hardened, needed the deep pressing of fingers to disintegrate, float through wire and rest on heap of white.

Sifting, wrists shaking, resting, sifting again, deep pressing of fingers. This is life. This is working through betrayal, broken heart, misconstrued expectation, misplaced trust. 

I need the body to lean into. I am flour, refined after sifting.

Ready for shaping,blending, searing heat, that will transform the very heart of me.