“I do things differently.”
Those were his famous last words.
“Mom always puts the flour in last,” I told him.
“Your mom and I have always done things differently in the kitchen,” my dad continued. He poured the flour into the empty mixer. “That’s why we don’t cook together.”
“Okay, but you’re going to make a mess,” I said.
It was just supposed to be a simple fruit pizza.
“Just trust me. It will be fine.”
Particles of fluffy white fluttered through the air, settling into the floor’s crevices. It covered my dad’s navy sweatshirt, his hair—mine too.
I grabbed a damp rag.
“Yep, dad. You sure do things differently.”
The why to the order of things.