Just watch her knead the dough. My grandmother did it without words, but I could hear her heart. She was never in a hurry.
Everything was measured, almost like a ritual. Her fingers knew the exact amount of flour even without a scale.
She would say: “Dough is like a person. You can’t break it, you can only feel it.” And I didn’t understand then, but I do now.
Grandma’s dough smelled like home. She knew how to put love into it, even when she was tired.
I learn this not from recipes, but from memory. Sometimes it seems to me that she passed on to me not a recipe, but a piece of herself.
Have you ever tasted memories?
Because I have.