Enough
Abuela's recipe for sweet bread was written on a yellowed index card in handwriting that slanted like rain. Ana had begged to bake it by herself this time, and Abuela had agreed, settling into a kitchen chair with a cup of tea and a crossword puzzle.
Ana read the card and frowned. "Flour, enough. Sugar, a good handful. Milk, warm, until it feels right." She turned the card over, hoping for numbers on the back. There were none.
"Abuela, how much is 'enough'?" "Enough is when it stops being too little," said Abuela, without looking up from her puzzle.
Ana sighed and started anyway. She poured in flour and stirred, then poured in more. The dough clung to the spoon in sticky ropes. She added another cup, and now it was dry and crumbly, cracking whenever she pressed it. She added a splash of milk, and it turned sticky again. Twenty minutes later there was flour on the counter, on the floor and on the tip of her nose, and the dough still did not look like Abuela's.
At last Abuela set down her pencil and came over. She did not take the bowl. Instead, she took Ana's hands and pressed them gently into the dough. "Close your eyes," she said. "Feel it. Is it sticking to your fingers or pulling away?"
"Sticking," Ana said. "A little." "Then a little flour. Just a pinch at a time."
Ana sprinkled and kneaded, sprinkled and kneaded. Slowly the dough changed under her palms. It became smooth and springy, and when she poked it, the dent filled back in on its own. She opened her eyes. "Is this it?"
Abuela touched the dough once and nodded. "Now you know what 'enough' means," she said. "I can't write that on a card. Your hands have to learn it."
That evening, when the bread came out of the oven golden and fragrant, Ana took the index card and, under Abuela's words, added a line in her own careful print: "Smooth, springy, bounces back."