The flour made a little mountain on the counter this morning, pale as winter snow with a crater at the top waiting for three golden eggs. I'd forgotten how much I loved this part—the quiet before the mess, before my hands would turn ghostly white and the kitchen would smell like fresh pasta and possibility.
"Make a well, they say, but mine always breaks," Elena laughed, cracking the first egg a bit too enthusiastically. A thin ribbon of yolk escaped down the side of our floury volcano, and we both lunged for it with dish towels, which only made things worse.
The dough came together slowly, reluctantly at first. Shaggy and rough under my palms, it needed time and pressure and patience. I kneaded for what felt like forever, folding and pushing, folding and pushing, until my forearms burned and the dough transformed into something smooth and alive. It smelled earthy and simple, like my grandmother's kitchen in the early mornings when she'd make tagliatelle before anyone else woke up.