When I take the bread from the oven, she reaches for it immediately. I jerk it away.
“It has to rest,” I chide.
This earns a wry look. “Just made and it’s already tired?”
I roll my eyes and set the sourdough loaf on a wire rack, stepping away from where she’s still leaned in. Crumbs will inevitably litter the counter; that’s not my problem yet.
“You say that as if babies don’t get more rest than adults ever manage.”
“I suppose so.” She picks up a crumb. The mess came faster than anticipated. “Still.”
I watch her crush it between her finger and thumbnail. “It’s worthwhile to wait.”
“One certainly hopes so.” She shrugs. “Don’t see why we don’t just slice it open.”
“It ruins the crumb,” I remind her, my gaze on the movement of her fingers as her thumb moves in circles over the pad of her forefinger. Her nails are in the phase just before she trims them, elegant half moons, now speckled with baked debris.
She knows this already, and isn’t impressed. When I look back to her face, an eyebrow is arched primly and her mouth twitches up. “It’s warm now.”
I shrug, and busy myself with double checking that the oven is off. (It is.) “It can be warmed again later. If we cut it now it’ll be crushed.”
She brings the crushed bread crumb to her lips, and I watch as her tongue flits out not a centimeter to taste. “It won’t be as moist later.”
“Well, not if you don’t warm it properly.”
She gives me a look that makes me feel as though I’m missing the point entirely, but like she isn’t surprised about this. “It’s warm now.” She laughs lightly, lifting her mouth in a grin. “Come on, I let you use my starter.”
I nod dumbly, and bite my lip. The serrated knife hangs on the wall, gleaming under the fluorescents, and I take it in hand. “Fine. You asked for it.”
“I did,” she says, tone all smug satisfaction but I can’t begrudge her for it. I’m the one pressing into the loaf, hot enough that I almost want to pull my fingers away but not enough to burn me, I’m the one slicing off two thick pieces. No more. But the rest of the loaf is still indented where I gripped too hard.
She butters it happily, and lets out a quiet moan as she bites in. “So good,” she says between bites.
I nod, but I’m looking at the clean streak on the counter where her finger traced through the crumbs, and my handprint marring the crust.