At 4 years old, I loved to eat and explore the refrigerator, putting my fingers into all the food I could find, especially. . . the sweets. I’ve always had a lot of energy so my mom keeps me busy and out of trouble by having me help her in the kitchen. Most days you could find me mashing potatoes, whipping cream, whisking egg whites, making flan and the most important thing, making bread. Playing in the dirt and getting dirty was one of my other favorite things but my mom wasn’t too happy because I would always ruin my clothes. Still...she loved me. Playing with dough was a good compromise for both of us. She would put a stool up for me to reach the counter, leave the ingredients, and leave me by myself to learn. I would have so much fun mixing it for hours trying to get the feel for it; if the dough is too wet, it will stick in your fingers and the bread won’t rise. If the dough is too dry, it won’t rise and it will be really hard in the ‘bite'. When you grab a little piece of dough and mash it in your fingers, it has to ‘pop'. She would come back and check and let me know if it was ready or not so ready. I would work and work, my little fingers feeling for that perfect consistency and patiently listening for where the dough ‘pops’.