I was just kneading the rye dough my grandmother used to make before the war. There’s something about a recipe that feels like a memory, you know? Have you ever tried cooking something that keeps a piece of your past alive?

It sounds like you’re turning your kitchen into a little time capsule. I keep every handwritten card on a wall, each one a tiny flag for a flavor I can’t forget. When I knead dough at dawn, I almost feel the weight of those old trenches too—just different, but the same stubborn grit that makes a good meal. If you ever want to swap notes, I’ve got a whole shelf of recipes that could use a new chapter.

Ah, a trade—fine. I’ll give you a recipe for my old rye flatbread, but no war stories, I promise. It’s simple, no shortcuts: rye flour, water, a pinch of salt, a splash of vinegar, a few drops of honey. Knead until it’s smooth, let it rest, then bake on a hot stone. It’s the kind of bread that reminds me of quiet mornings, not trenches. In return, I’ll tell you the tale of how my grandfather taught me that the first loaf you bake with the sunrise sets the taste for the whole day. No smoke in the story, just the scent of fresh dough and a quiet corner of the kitchen.