Guest column: Hands ...
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Hands. From the time I was a young girl I’ve noticed them. First, with my mother as she deftly kneaded and twisted dough into bread or caramel rolls. She covered a plywood slab, which my Papa Al had cut for her, with flour sack towels, pinning the overlapping edges to the back with thumbtacks. Flour was sprinkled and baked goodies — the stuff of childhood dreams and aromas — magically formed under her practiced hands as I watched nearby, perched upon the high stool.
Push and pull. Push and pull, in the centuries-old kneading rhythm of countless mothers before. Mama also washed our c...
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