I start by preheating the oven.
The dial turns with a small resistance, a muted click that feels ceremonial. Not a decision, exactly—more like opening a door and standing in the frame. Heat will build whether I’m ready or not. I like that. I don’t have to earn it.
I fill the sink with warm water and soap, even though there’s nothing to wash yet. Steam curls up and fogs the window just enough to blur the outside world. I rinse a bowl that was already clean. Dry it carefully, deliberately, as if it’s fragile. As if I am.
The kitchen smells faintly of yeast and yesterday. Of sugar caught in the grain of the wooden counter. Of something unfinished. The refrigerator hums. The oven breathes. These sounds feel dependable in a way people sometimes aren’t. They don’t change their tone when I enter the room.
I bake when everything else feels unstable because instability is loud, and this is quiet work.
Out there—wherever out there is today—things shift without warning. Plans dissolve. Days blur. The ground moves slightly underfoot, just enough to keep you bracing. I don’t always name it. I don’t always want to. Some things feel safer left as weather rather than language.
In here, flour behaves like flour.
It falls softly, dusting the counter like the beginning of snow. Butter yields if you let it sit long enough, if you don’t rush it, if you trust warmth to do what force cannot. Sugar sparkles, then disappears. Eggs crack cleanly or they don’t, but either way, the shell ends up in the same place, and the bowl keeps waiting.
Baking as Routine, Not Resolution
There is comfort in repetition that doesn’t pretend to fix anything.
I measure because it slows me down. Because numbers hold still even when thoughts don’t. I level the cup. I tap the spoon against the bowl. I wipe my hands on the same towel I always use, worn thin in the middle, stitched once where it tore. It smells like clean cotton and heat.
Some days my body arrives before my mind does. My hands know what to do before I do. They reach for the whisk. They fold gently, turning the bowl a quarter turn each time. They scrape the sides with patience that surprises me.
The instability sits nearby, unnamed. It leans against the doorway. It watches. I don’t invite it in, but I don’t send it away either.
While the mixer runs, I lean my hips against the counter and feel the vibration travel through bone and muscle. The sound fills the room just enough to drown out the quieter questions. The ones that ask what now and how long and what if this doesn’t hold.
I wash bowls because the sink fills whether I want it to or not. Because water runs in a single direction. Because something leaves my hands cleaner than it found them. I watch bubbles slide down porcelain. I let the warmth linger on my skin.
There are moments when I forget why I came into the kitchen at all.
I stand there holding a spatula, listening to the oven click on and off, the thermostat negotiating with heat. I wonder if I meant to bake, or if I just needed to be somewhere that made sense. Somewhere with edges. Somewhere with rules I could follow without explaining myself.
The timer hasn’t rung yet. I don’t rush it. I never rush the oven. It has its own time, and I respect that. Waiting feels easier when it’s assigned.
Sometimes what comes out is perfect in a quiet way. Even. Golden. Calm. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it sinks or cracks or resists being what I imagined. Both outcomes feel strangely acceptable. The process holds, even when the result doesn’t.
When it’s done, I turn off the heat. I let the room cool slowly. I wipe the counter in long strokes. I leave the bowl to soak, because not everything needs to be finished tonight.
The oven ticks as it cools, metal contracting, the day releasing itself inch by inch. I don’t turn this into a lesson. I don’t wrap it up neatly. I don’t say this is why or this is how you survive.
I just stand there for a moment longer than necessary.
I bake.
And for now, that’s where I am.
