Fresh Bread

It reaches you before you see it, the smell moving room to room through the house, yeasty and warm and impossibly generous, the smell of somewhere you were happy once. Then the crust, crackling faintly as it cools, and the give of the first tear, and the steam. Baking bread is friction made delicious: hours of waiting, the slow biology of the dough, effort you cannot rush, the taste of the time it took.

Go on, make some bread.