Faith
"No, Daddy, you're doing it all wrong!" Noah giggled, clapping his flour-dusted hands together as he sat atop the marble kitchen island. "You have to knead it like a pillow, not punch it like a bad guy!"
Nicholas stood over a vast wooden cutting board in a pair of rolled-up dark trousers and a crisp white shirt, looking entirely out of his depth. He held a wooden rolling pin with the same intense, calculated grip he usually reserved for multi-million-dollar contract negotiations.
"I am applying uniform pressure to ensure an even crust, Noah," Nicholas explained, his deep voice carrying a deadpan seriousness that made my heart do a traitorous little flutter. "If the density is inconsistent, the bake will be uneven."
"It's pizza dough, Nicholas, not a structural foundation," I laug
