Sheet, sheet, sheet, then the mixture; sheet, sheet...
No one makes a good baklava these days, she says. Everyone rushes. You musthave patience for this.
I don't know that I'll ever learn patience. Watching her, I want to... I want to wear an apron, I want my hair perfectly coiffed, I want to do this work until my hands cramp because if I do, I will have produced something. My mother will bring the baklava out for dessert and people will ooh and ahh when they taste it, and my mother will smile with quiet pride.
I don't know if I'll ever have the patience for it, though. I want to skip to the part where everyone's complimenting me. I want to skip to having something without doing it.
She glances over at me and raises her eyebrows, and I hurriedly pick up my pencil, devote myself to homework, limiting myself to occasional glances, watching my un tiring mother from the corner of my eye.
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Clarification - all of my posts today are fiction.
I go eat lunch now.