I listened to a story about a woman who visited Egypt in high school. She watched the cook make yogurt during her stay. The cook’s hands were tea stained along the creases, strong yet nimble like those of a dancer. She hummed a folk song her mother often sang about searching for stars in a sea of black figs. The milk heated in a copper pot. The cook dribbled the yogurt over her wrist like a baby’s bottle and when it warmed her wrist, she whisked in the yogurt. She then poured the yogurt into a glass jar and wrapped it with a thick towel before setting it the sun to culture. Inspired by the story, I made yogurt then set it in the sun before I walked to the library. I found a short story collection by Amy Hempel that I had to read, despite the sizable stack I’m currently reading. I cracked open the book while walking and soaked it up like warm egg yolk on toast.