Walter watched his aunt’s hands as they burrowed and pulled into a sticky pile of doughy and heavenly glop. They messaged the dough up and down and worked their way into fists of floury powder. Though small, his eyes grew and grew, seeing every fleck of the snow-flacked powder on the dough’s sugary surface. His stomach growled synonymously, urging him to satisfy its lonely emptiness. Suddenly he felt as if he hadn’t eaten for weeks. With a timid step forward, Walter continued to eye his aunt’s hands and the pie dough mesh into one, sticky, ball of potential delight.
A drop of anxious sweat began to trail down Walter’s forehead, as with a quick wipe and stroke of her palms, his aunt snatched a glass pan. As if slowed to a glacial span of time, her nimble fingers then reached for the jar of home-mixed and caramelized cherries. His jaw dropped and his lips began to grow wet with anticipation as the scent of the cherries tart syrup reached his nose.
Before he knew it, his aunt had placed and patted the dough into its glass pan. The temptation to reach out and stroke the soft folds that the dough created along the pan’s edge consumed him. Every shinning cherry could be seen, as glob by clumpy glob, the cherries plopped into the dough enveloped pan. A small train of drool gingerly began to feel its way down Walter’s chin. Only when the crimson and scarlet sea of cherries had been covered with a crisscross network of the left-over dough and locked into the kitchen’s iron stove, did he note that not only was he drooling, but leaning towards his aunt’s culinary masterpiece. A masterpiece that would soon be his.