Two summers ago I installed a small pizza oven and raised the railings an extra foot past code because forty-two inches wasn’t enough in my opinion.
Up here Ben can run without me losing my mind about stairs or sharp corners or falls.
And tonight, Jess is here.
Which shouldn’t feel different.
But it does.
She’s leaning over the planter box with Ben, both of them examining the rosemary like it holds state secrets. The evening light catches in Jess’s hair, and I remember wrapping my fist around those waves...
I look away. Focus on the dough.
“Daddy, can we make pizza?” Ben asks, running over with Frederick tucked under her arm.
“That’s the plan,piccola.”
“Can Jess help?”
I glance at Jess. She’s watching me with those warm brown eyes that see too much.
Waiting for permission.
Like she needs it.
Like this isn’t already her routine as much as mine.
“Of course she can.”
Jess crosses to the outdoor counter where I’ve set up themise en place. Flour. Yeast. Salt. Water. Oil. Everything measured and ready because that’s how you control outcomes.
You prep.
You plan.
You eliminate variables.
“This is beautiful,” Jess says, running her fingers over the marble countertop. Not touching the ingredients. Just appreciating the setup.
I’m stupidly pleased by that.
“It’s functional,” I reply.
“It’s both,” she insists.
Ben climbs onto the step stool I keep out here. Her face barely clears the counter. She’s vibrating with excitement. “Can I touch the flour?”
“After we wash hands.”
The three of us move to the outdoor sink. I watch Jess guide Ben through proper technique. Soap between fingers. Under nails. Twenty seconds of scrubbing. The same ritual I learned in culinary school. The same one I’ve been drilling into Ben since she could reach a faucet. The same one Ben in turntaught Jess, with “Frederick” acting as the mouthpiece.
With Jess watching, Ben doesn’t complain. Doesn’t rush. Just copies every move like it’s a game instead of hygiene protocol.
We dry off. Return to the counter.
I’m measuring flour into the bowl when Jess says: “What if we did Messy Hour first?”
I pause. “Messy what?”
