Frantic. The family dinner approaches. I help my mother in the kitchen. There is bread to be baked. She hasn’t let it rise enough though. The dough is runny and won’t hold its shape. I try to say something but she insists that there’s not enough time. She pours out three loaves that run into each other. She uses slices of bell peppers to try and make them hold their shape but it doesn’t work. It smells of yeast, just like it should, but the dough runs over the sides of the baking pans.