"I don't care much for freshly baked bread — feeling the crust give way beneath my thumbs, drawing in the nutty, yeasty scent that becomes flavor as it settles on my tongue," said no one ever.

There are lovely bakeries in town. I could walk in and walk out with a perfect loaf. I don't. I bake because the making fills something in me that buying cannot. When the ache of the world feels too loud, I turn to flour and water. I bake. I feed. One neighbor. One helper. One food bank table.