It was early Saturday morning, and the sun was peeking through the clouds. Twelve-year-old Trevor stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his sleepy eyes. His mother, Sheila, was already busy in the kitchen, frying onions and peppers, scrambling eggs, and preparing a second batch of fried dumplings. The aroma of sautéed vegetables and fried dough filled the air, an irresistible scent that made his stomach grumble in anticipation.
“Good morning, son.”
Sheila greeted Trevor with a kiss on the cheek.
“Are you ready to learn how to make fried dumplings?”
Trevor’s eyes lit up with excitement.
“Yes, please!”
“First, we must knead the dough, then form little balls from the dough.”
He watched as his mother kneaded the dough, her movements fluid and graceful. To him, it was like watching a dance, each step deliberate and precise. He longed to move like that, to create…