By Laura Tourtillott

I enter the kitchen to a spiced earthy smell and steamy windows. At the stove, a tall, red-haired man is stirring a large pot.

"What're you making, Daddy?" I ask.

"Applesauce. Wanna stir while I knead the bread?"

"Sure. But can I knead, too?" I try not to sound whiny, but kneading is my favorite part. After Dad goes through a few turns of the dough, we switch places. My hands are smaller, and since I'm nearly two feet shorter than he is, I have a hard time.

As I go back to stirring, I know the muscles in my arms will complain tomorrow, and I may not be able to use the monkey bars, but I am happy anyway. After he puts the dough back on the fridge to rise some more, he gives me instructions for the applesauce.

"Laura, you hold the jar while I spoon the sauce in, okay?"

"All right," I say, careful not to let the hot apples burn my fingers.

When we have filled three jars I ask, "Why is there still some at the bottom of the pot?"