On the kitchen counter, she'd set out the ingredients: Flour bag, sugar box, two brown eggs nestled in the grooves between tiles. A yellow block of butter blurring at the edges. A shallow glass bowl of lemon peel. I toured the row. This was the week of my ninth birthday, and it had been a long day at school of cursive lessons, which I hated, and playground yelling about point scoring, and the sunlit kitchen and my warm-eyed mother were welcome arms, open. I dipped a finger into the wax baggie of brown-sugar crystals, murmured yes, please, yes.
The passage describes a young child who is eagerly anticipating their birthday while exploring the ingredients set out on the kitchen counter. Each item, from the flour to the butter, sparks a sense of familiarity and warmth associated with their mother’s cooking. The child reflects on a challenging day at school, contrasting it with the comfort found in the inviting space of the kitchen, which feels like a haven of joy...
