flour

my mother measured nothing. a handful was a unit. a pinch was a unit. a "until it looks right" was a unit, and the maddening thing, the thing i would give anything for now, is that it always did look right. she could not write the recipe down because the recipe lived in her hands, in the specific weather of her kitchen, in a body that had made this bread ten thousand times and did not need to be told. i used to find it careless. i understand now it was the opposite. it was knowing something so completely you stopped being able to see it.