Follow the Recipe
In the kitchen I look over this clear glass bowl filled with ordinary white flour. I push play on my vintage iPod and then go back two decades, when I was an unknowing, bendable thing. I shape my hands into spoons, and as if entering a warm bath, they gently descend. Open palms press down to the bottom; they bloom into starfish. Sand as smooth as the ocean; softer than delicate coffee grounds. My knuckles are tucked in, already dreaming. Then, like being carried to the shore, my hands resurface, accompanied by little waterfalls, outlining a traveling timeline on my skin. Cascading...
Read More