Dinner time. Roasted pumpkin for the pie. Pastry that is light as my mother's hand. Dustings of flour on the kitchen counter top. Sieve. Spices of clove and nutmeg and the trusted cinnamon. My dreams are of cinnamon and allspice tinged with sugar. Brown sugar and eggs fresh from the coop. Pastry. Keep the touch light, lift and use only the tips of your fingers. All in the touch. Roll lightly and with wood and keep turning in circles. It should be all in the lightness. The air. Never bake in a bad mood. Always wear socks and listen to Bach. Have two dogs watch you as you sift. Be thankful of your place in this world. Line the pan like it is a map of the world. Cut out the edges. Treat it like life. Treat it like a baby. Never be rough. Handle it with love. Prick the holes and ensure no air remains. Glance out the kitchen window now and then just to remind yourself of why you are here. Wipe the flour from your apron and watch it fall to the ancient wood floor, make an imprint on it with your feet. It might remind you of Spain. A beach where you walked topless along the sand, in clear water, a silly sunhat to keep you young as your skin turned into the colour of a baked pie. A cinnamon coating on your lips. A dusting of sand like sugar that clings to your toes.