flour in my coffee

Your daughter is three, and on Sundays the two of you bake, which means you bake and she governs, sleeves rolled to her armpits, standing on her chair at the counter she calls her office. She cracks the eggs, which is to say you discuss the shell situation calmly afterwards. Flour in her hair, flour in your coffee, flour in places flour cannot be explained.

The muffins come out wrong every single week, dense as riverstones, and she hands them out to the household with the gravity of a state occasion. You have eaten about forty of them. You would eat forty more.