Fill, pinch, repeat. My grandma is at the kitchen counter, diligently making pierogi. I hover near her elbow and watch her hands, her veins snaking around spots where the sun kissed her skin. I’m 9 years old, and I can’t wait to eat this Polish feast. The paper-thin dough succumbs to her muscle memory, sticking exactly where she applies pressure. She learned the recipe, which is stored in her head free from the constraints of measurements, from watching her mother.