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Recipe for Discontent The fall I was fourteen was all about flavor— making the air thick enough to bite, rinsing fingertips with color. Everything had a use: leaf and root, hands and rolling pins. I learned how to pickle and pluck, how to feed a family that waited for me in some distant future I couldn’t imagine. I trained myself to snap and sing with coriander and clove, modeled myself after women who clucked around the kitchen like dissatisfied birds, whose arms were thick with years of pushing dough into place. As they orchestrated move after move— smoothing down rough corners, making pans hiss with spice, I thought of what lay ahead of me: all the chili powder and mint, all the steaming bowls of summer humming with honeysuckle, calling me from stove and pot, from the persistent pull of bread that never stopped rising. • • •  • • • ...

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