Nina's hair was curled around her head like two sugary ginger cookies.
"Two large eggs - did you cover the cookbook with flour, Emma? Emma?" Emma drew her eyes away from the spirals of hair and looked into Nina's dark brown eyes.
"Maybe," she said devilishly, and Nina swatted at her with the white-flecked whisk. Emma touched her own hair. Ginger cookies were truly delicious, cinnamony and crunchy, crumbling around your lips as you sank your teeth into them. Nina shook her head at Emma. The ginger cookies flopped around like baby bear cub ears, soft. Lovable.
"A quarter teaspoon of salt. Can you whip the eggs?" Nina's voice, like creamy milk. It was smooth and caring. Emma turned on the beater.
The eggs flew around the bowl, the twirling and leaping whisks - like ballerinas, but unbalanced ballerinas - making a soft and loud clanking noise against the porcelain. They were mesmerizing, at the same time nebulas, chickens, and soft yellow sheets from the dryer.
"They're done, Emma," said Nina. She was dancing around on her tip-toes. Bouncing, a springy pogo stick made up of equal parts cuddly cat and strong woman.
The tabby cat (Jorge) padded into the room and flopped down in a glaze of sun.
"Mix them together and -"
"What've you got? Bibbidi bobbidi boo!" Emma screeched at the top of her lungs. Nina tickled her.
They flew around the kitchen, laughing and stumbling.
Nina's twin ginger cookies fell out of their perfect spirals. Like whipped cream melting in the sun.
But it was alright. Because twenty minutes later, Emma had a beautiful tray of ginger cookies all to herself. A tasty replacement to the ones that had perched on her older sister's head.
"Two large eggs - did you cover the cookbook with flour, Emma? Emma?" Emma drew her eyes away from the spirals of hair and looked into Nina's dark brown eyes.
"Maybe," she said devilishly, and Nina swatted at her with the white-flecked whisk. Emma touched her own hair. Ginger cookies were truly delicious, cinnamony and crunchy, crumbling around your lips as you sank your teeth into them. Nina shook her head at Emma. The ginger cookies flopped around like baby bear cub ears, soft. Lovable.
"A quarter teaspoon of salt. Can you whip the eggs?" Nina's voice, like creamy milk. It was smooth and caring. Emma turned on the beater.
The eggs flew around the bowl, the twirling and leaping whisks - like ballerinas, but unbalanced ballerinas - making a soft and loud clanking noise against the porcelain. They were mesmerizing, at the same time nebulas, chickens, and soft yellow sheets from the dryer.
"They're done, Emma," said Nina. She was dancing around on her tip-toes. Bouncing, a springy pogo stick made up of equal parts cuddly cat and strong woman.
The tabby cat (Jorge) padded into the room and flopped down in a glaze of sun.
"Mix them together and -"
"What've you got? Bibbidi bobbidi boo!" Emma screeched at the top of her lungs. Nina tickled her.
They flew around the kitchen, laughing and stumbling.
Nina's twin ginger cookies fell out of their perfect spirals. Like whipped cream melting in the sun.
But it was alright. Because twenty minutes later, Emma had a beautiful tray of ginger cookies all to herself. A tasty replacement to the ones that had perched on her older sister's head.
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