Cliff then rolls up his loose cable-knit sweater sleeves, slaps the dough onto flour-coated parchment paper, and starts kneading the mix with his palms. Spreading and pulling, sending puffs of white over his pulsing forearms. I find myself breathing heavier, swallowing deeper, and tapping incessantly on the counter beside him. I didn’t realize baking was…this. Strong forearms and deft hands.
