Unprecedented amounts of kitchen activity happening for us this week. Yesterday was the Day of Many Pitas. About an hour into production (a friend and I were baking for roughly 40 people), I was faced with a question: was it too early to send Chevi to boarding school? She loves to "be a mommy." She's at her very best wearing my apron, immersion blender in hand. She bakes cookies. She stirs batter. She even scrambles eggs! And no one, I assure you, is prouder of her culinary prowess than yours truly. Truly. But this was serious business, folks, and neither she nor I was accomplishing much. Her impassioned pleas to "squish the dough" fell on deaf ears. She got cranky. I got cranky. She whined. (I want to roll it!) I worried. (Did I already add the salt? Are we ever going to get this done?) Somewhere in the midst of my baking frenzy, the Chevster found her zone. Singing quietly to herself, she dumped flour and very old dried chives onto a plate. For nearly two hours, she patted, she sifted, she stirred. She danced. The pitas emerged from the oven, puffy, golden, and unadulterated by little fingers. Exhausted, flour-streaked, and satisfied, two happy bakers made their way home.