I tried to make fresh tortillas earlier this week. Tried. As I was kneading my dough, I drifted back to memories of watching two amazing women knead dough in either a stainless steal bowl or a large mint green plastic bowl. They would knead. . .knead. . .knead. In between their movements, they would speak to us. . .me.
Put the plates on the table.
Stir *whatever is in the pot* before it sticks to the bottom.
Wipe down the counter.
How was your day?
So, let me finish telling you the story. . .
Thinking back on those dozens, hundreds, thousands of times I watched them make fresh tortillas for breakfast, lunch or dinner (or for all three in one day), I never realized I would stare at their hands. Now that I practice my skills for my future family, I can close my eyes and picture it all.
Whether in the kitchen with linoleum flooring at 606 A East Bay Street in Wauchula.
Or the one person wide kitchen at 238 SW 1st Street in Florida City.
Or the country apple kitchen overlooking our back acre with our small church as our backdrop at 1040 US HWY 98 W in Frostproof.
These women kneaded not only the dough for that day’s meal, but gently – and not always so gently – used those same hands to make me into who I am today. Those same hands picked fruits and vegetables for a living. Those same hands braided my hair for my long days at school. Those same hands grabbed my wrists when I tried to jerk away from their scolding. Those same hands embraced me when I needed it most.