The instant I wake up I know I’ve overslept. The smell of aged cheese and warm bread fill the house. I run downstairs, and into the kitchen. My dad stands in the kitchen, along with my sister, Cece. The kitchen has been deconstructed, and repurposed for making crescia, a traditional Italian bread.

The countertops, which used to hold cups and dishes, now are topped with flour, with one counter holding a towering porcelain pot, which holds the dough. Dad wipes down the countertops with a paper towel, cleaning off the extra bits of dough that stuck to it. Cece works on preheating the oven. She looks over to me, still standing in the pathway between the kitchen and the living room.

“You slept in, dude. We didn’t want to wake you,” she says, with a wide grin. She must be excited, too.

“Yeah, I stayed up a little later than usual…” I say groggily. I guess through my excitement, I forgot how sleepy I really am.

“Hey, you got to skip to the best part, though,” my dad says.

He is right, I think. I walk over to the pot, watching my step for flour on the floor.

I peek inside and see the gooey, gelatinous dough. It is a very light tan, and is battered and looks like frosting. I look at the edge on the interior of the pot, and check right next to the top of the dough. I see it after a couple seconds of staring; millimeter by millimeter, the dough is rising up the pot.

It still has a long time to go, about three or four hours, but it will all be worth the wait. Crescia is always worth the wait.