While cracking eggs to scramble today. I was reminded of watching my mother's very elegant gestures when preparing food. After emptying the shell, she would delicately run her middle finger around the inside of the shell, removing the last little bit of egg white clinging to the membrane which coats the shell's interior. I asked my cousin if this was a family thing and she agreed that her mother used the same gesture. And when my mother would cut an apple in half, a rare treat for Southern Californian children, and only eaten on Christmas, (in my family), she could pop out a perfect half sphere of core and seeds with the tip of a paring knife, as beautifully formed as if she'd used a melon baller. Indeed, my mother's hands were so amazing, that if birth control had been perfected in the 1940's, she would have continued as a concert pianist, rather than having 7 children before turning 40. I was 40 before I realized everyone's mother didn't play Ravel's "Pavane pour une Infante défunte", which I think is translated as Princess, and that Bolero is the only Ravel's piece I will listen to on purpose. She loved playing Liszt, but didn't think Chopin was interesting enough - the difference between playing and listening, I guess.