“Are you learning anything new at the bakery?” my
grandmother asked as I was elbow deep in biscuit dough. I tried to scrape the
sticky mess off my fingers and think of a decent response, both efforts were
futile.
“Oh, I don’t know. Not really. Maybe?” came my reply as I
sprinkled flour onto the table and over my rolling pin. After forming the lump
into a somewhat recognizable shape, I began to roll. My grandma watched and
waited, nipping off a bit of dough with her fingers and tasting it, giving me
her approval.
“You know, I always use a pizza or pie cutter to even out
the edges when I’ve got a dough like that,” my grandma said after her sample. I
took a knife and evened out the edges, giving myself a neat rectangle. Hmm, that’s better, I thought.
I spread not-so-softened goat cheese over the dough, taking
care not to tear it and using my fingers when necessary; her eyes watched me
the entire time. She mentioned something about whipping it with honey, for added
sweetness. I contemplated and then disregarded it, staring at the lumpy goat cheese before me.
