Three generations are drawn together at the kitchen sink, the spirit of my much-loved grandmother, her four-year-old great, great granddaughter and myself. The youngest of the generational stream is standing on a chair intensely concentrating on compressing flour from a mixing bowl into a measuring cup. That accomplished she carefully transfers the cup to a cutting board, flips the cup upside down and gently removes it. A mound of white flour stands at attention, a miracle of sorts. She turns back to the mixing bowl and plunges her arms as far as they will go into the softness; she rubs the flour on her arms and face like a bather lathering on soapsuds. The wonder of having the freedom to experience new sensations is written on her adorable face. She calls me to stand closer to her. Before I know, she has taken both little hands and placed white impressions of them on my face. Now we are alike, we laugh with the sheer joy of the moment.

Muir (my grandmother) and I were close companions; my grandfather passed on when I was four-years-old. Weekends spent with Muir were special times; she would allow me to indulge in activities at her home that were strictly forbidden at mine. In the mornings the two of us would have coffee with breakfast. Her coffee was so strong you could practically stand a spoon upright in the cup, mine consisted of one teaspoon of coffee in a cup of milk. Delicious! Dishwashing was another favorite indulgence for I could fill the sink with loads of suds and wash dishes to my heart's content in the cold water I preferred. No matter that suds and water were all over the counters and the floors, they could be cleaned up. (Years later Muir confessed that after I went home she would pull out all of the dishes that I had washed and rewash them with hot water.)

In a sparkle of memory I am transported from my kitchen sink with my granddaughter by my side to Muir's kitchen where I am the little girl standing on a chair playing with a bowl of flour. It is a mystery why this memory having to do with a common ingredient has survived the years. The spirit of my grandmother, my granddaughter and the child I once was merge in this simple act. Three generations drawn together with the golden thread of familial love.

Trending Video