I pour a mound of soft flour onto the counter. A bird song slips in through the open window, long winter light stretches across the kitchen, setting the egg yolks aglow. The pitter patter of tiny feet race around, the words ‘pasta! S’ketti!’ Shouted between laps. I dive into the pile of yolks and flour, mixing, kneading, folding until a smooth yellow dough forms. My mind drifts to the garden while I knead, thinking of the planting to come. A breeze rushes in. Pasta Sunday has begun.