“My mother grew up there. I was young when we moved to America, but she taught me to make this, among many other traditional Jewish dishes. Let’s start with the yeast.”

Mrs. Berman had Alice repeat every step as they went along, from mixing the ingredients and heating up the milk, to beating the eggs, until they had the dough formed. They kneaded and talked, with Mrs. Berman sharing stories of her mother and the meals their family enjoyed together growing up. It sounded lovely, warm and inviting, so different from Alice’s holidays at the interminable table in the Lusk dining room. This was what Alice liked best about cooking and food: the stories and the sharing. The feeling that generations before and generations after would create the same dishes with love, just as this one had.

When the dough was ready, they set it aside to rise. Mrs. Berman said, “You’re very competent in the kitchen. I can tell when someone has never kneaded dough before.”

“Thank you. I find baking soothing.”

“Indeed, I do, too. Something about pounding the dough to work out all your frustrations.”

“Exactly,” Alice said with a chuckle.

They prepared a simple sugar syrup while they waited, then Alice washed the utensils and pans so Mrs. Berman could get off her feet for a few minutes. After the first rise finished, they rolled out the dough. The filling was a simple sugar and cinnamon mix, which they spread on the dough and then formed into logs.

“Now, watch.” Mrs. Berman cut the log down the middle, then layered and twisted the dough around itself. “You do it.”

Alice matched the cook’s movements. “How is that?” The twist was a bit sloppy, but not far off.

“Good for your first time. We must put them in the pans and let them rise once more.” She heated the oven as Alice went back to the sink to clean up.

“Good evening, sir,” she heard Mrs. Berman say.

Curious, Alice glanced over her shoulder—then froze. No, it couldn’t be.

Why was he here?

She lunged for the tap to shut off the water as Kit wandered into the kitchen, the hint of a grin on his face.

“May I help you?” Mrs. Berman asked politely.

“I was searching for Miss Lusk, actually.”

“Ah.”

Alice dried her hands on a towel and came toward the table. “Mrs. Berman, this is Mr. Ward. He’s a friend. Another guest at the party.”

“I see.”

Awkwardness descended, the three of them quiet, and Alice had no idea what to do next. She stared at Kit’s handsome face as he glanced around the kitchen. Mrs. Berman took matters into her own hands by asking, “Miss, would you like a moment alone with Mr. Ward or . . . ?”