The Cooking Class

The aroma from the kitchen was starting to meander down the halls and enter into Mia's bedroom. She needed to find out what Oma was cooking. It smelled delicious.

Bounding out of bed, Mia put her shoes on and raced down the hall, only to come to a skidding stop before she knocked her Oma over. Assessing the situation, heard Oma grunt as she walked past her and placed the dough on the table.

Mia watched in amazement as Oma started to knead the dough. She was covered from head to toe with flour. It was hiding in her white hair, and her finger imprints decorated her black apron.

She knew not to talk to Oma when she was cooking. It was the golden rule, so she sat opposite and watched as her wrinkled hands kneaded the dough.

Oma looked up, caught Mia's attention, and nodded to the bread. It was time to learn how to do this. Stepping back, she pointed to the dough, signaling that Mia should stand in her place.

Mia's stomach lurched at the thought. A thousand protests bombarded her. She wasn't ready to start cooking, but Oma looked at her sternly and pointed to the dough again.

Standing on shaky legs, Mia walked around the table and attempted to touch the dough with her bare hands, but Oma slapped her hands away. Grabbing some flour, she doused Mia's hands and smiled, signaling she was ready to knead.

Letting her fingers dance across the top of the dough, she hesitantly started to knead, afraid that she would ruin dinner. Oma placed her hands over Mia's, and slowly, they worked the dough.

Oma stepped back and smiled as she watched Mia. When Mia finished, she clasped her hands together and signed how proud she was. That was wonderful, Mia. Are you ready for the next step?

Grabbing a small bit of the dough, Mia started to feed it into the pasta machine until the dough was the right thickness to make the ravioli. The whirring of the mixer droned on as Mia worked her magic.

Feeding the dough through one last time, she knew it was ready. The dough was smooth and had the perfect golden hue. Taking the first strip over to the table, she placed the strip over the metal tray.

They filled the ravioli with Oma's special mixture of sausage, red peppers, and ricotta, but first, Mia needed to taste-test the concoction. She looked at Oma, pointed to her mouth, rubbed her belly, and bounced from foot to foot.

Laughing at her antics, Oma reached into the draw and grabbed two spoons. She dipped the spoons into the sausage mixture and brought up two heaping mounds of deliciousness. Handing one spoon to Mia, they both tasted it at the same time.

Before, they placed the top piece of pasta over the bottom. Then, Oma took the rolling pin and handed it to Mia.

Signing, It's your turn. She stepped away and watched as Mia placed the rolling pin on top of the paste and rolled it back and forth.

Fear filled Mia to the brim, knowing it was time to take the ravioli out of the tray. Gathering her courage, she popped the first one out and then the second. Relief filled her. They didn't break!

Oma nodded her approval.

When the twelve raviolis were successfully pulled out of the tin, Oma put her hands to her lips and blew her a great big kiss.

Mia ran to her and wrapped her little arms around her. With her flour-covered hands, Oma brushed away Mia's hair and gently kissed her forehead.

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I hope that you enjoyed this little story. My grans call me Oma, but I grew up eating Italian food, hence The Italian Oma. If so, please explore my other short stories and recipes! But first, excuse me while I go and make some ravioli. Loads of Love. KA Stefana