Young Writers Society

Hey Mars!

Is it possible to knead bread dough without using your hands?

kneading bread dough with her hands

you better get out fast before you become her taste-testing guinea pig

She claims she needs it

the tears that are right now sliding off the bridge of her nose and into the bread dough

emotions running through my mind has never been translatable into words.

Hey there, here is that review you requested. Hopefully it helps!

She claims she needs the right kind of music to help her cook: jazz and salsa mean wild, spicy flavors; oldies mean comfort foods; death metal means an experiment, and you better get out fast before you become her taste-testing guinea pig.

“Could you turn down your music?” I ask hesitantly. “I can hear it upstairs.” #FF0000 ">New paragraph here. She turns the volume dial without looking at me. When she’s angry at me, she doesn’t hide it; when she’s hurt, she shows it in jerky motions, in cold glances, in the tears that are right now sliding off the bridge of her nose and into the bread dough. I hate it. #FF0000 ">New paragraph here. “Listen,” I say, “I didn’t mean what I said last night.” I want to make her listen to me, but after our fight, she has every right not to. “I’m sorry.” I mean it, but I don’t know if I can say anything else; the constant stream of thoughts and emotions running through my mind has never been translatable into words.

My mother finally turns around and blows her nose on the kitchen towel#FF0000 ">. I make a mental note to throw it in the wash later.

I seem to always get lost in the applause that follows the show.

I do. I move in next to her, and she shows me how to knead the dough, how to caress and nurture it so it rises up strong and beautiful. #FF0000 ">New paragraph here. “Like caring for a child,” she adds, glancing at me quickly out of the corner of her eye to make sure I get it. She turns up the volume on the radio, because she needs music. I don’t understand that. With each soft whump of dough, ding of the metal bowl on the counter, and tick of the oven timer, we make our own.

My lovely lovely Cars. =D

She claims she needs it, but I don’t understand why.

despite myself, I make a mental note to throw it in the wash later.

My mother is violin-and-electric-guitar. She’s fast, dramatic, and she doesn’t stop or look back. I’m an afterthought -- the one who stays behind and picks up the pieces.

“Do you want to learn how to make bread?” she asks, letting me know that I’m forgiven. We will not mention the fight again.

I thought it was lovely. Especially the first paragraph when you talk about the different types of music.

The final two paragraphs seem rather abrupt; the piece likes being moody, but you rip it away and make everything fine, just fine. And that's like "real life," I suppose, but it's not much like fiction, because fiction hates snap-turns.

It's quite good, though. I enjoyed it. Eloquent and heartfelt.

Prokaryote