I pour in the flour and the sugar with my friends. Like any other teenagers, we’re obsessed with the rich chocolate chips in cookies, with our hands in the dough, the pockets of air they leave behind. As each ingredient goes in, this bowl is like breath. As each ingredient goes in, this bowl is the creation of the world. Like any other teenager, I want to be mother and father bird to both, building nests and spitting pulp to take care of their baby. I want to be the bee that drinks from the mouth of the flower, that gives back as good as it gets. I skin my knuckles on the bowl and now part of me is rising with the dough too: collaboration. I toss back a chocolate chip. We’re both inside of each other now.