My Grandmother was a big bosom, no nonsense kind of woman. Her name was Bertha. She worked hard all her life and looked it. Her hands and fingers were gnarled and spotty. She was never without an apron, except for church.
On Saturdays she would butcher a chicken for Sunday's dinner. She would take the the uneatable parts of the chicken and stick it in a pot along with veggie tops, potato peels and other garbage items and simmer for stock. In moments, with out measuring she would whip together the ingredients for noodle dough. With her massive hands and wooden rolling pin she would roll out the dough. With out any sort of guide she would cut long strands of dough and place them on the noodle rack to dry. Grabbing her basket, out she would go to her garden and pick the ripest vegetables to add to the broth. In a wink she would have the veggies clean, cut and added to the soup. At the right moment she would add her noddles.
If I close my eyes, I am almost back there in her wonderful kitchen, smelling those wonderful smells, listening to her broken English tell such lovely stories while she taught me her secrets.